The Story of Steve
by TheMoonclaw
Summary: Once upon a time, there was a Dremora Churl. His story, like all stories tied to the Elder Scrolls, begins in a prison...A humorous yet serious tale of a Dremora, told in 3 parts. COMPLETE!
1. They serve by choice,

Once upon a time, there was a Dremora Churl.

He served the Daedric price Molag Bal and wanted to be the strongest Dremora Oblivion or Nirn had ever seen.

His story, like all stories tied to the Elder Scrolls, begins in a prison.

* * *

He sighed as he wandered the halls of the Wailing Prison. He had been working this shift the last two hundred years and he was already tried of it. There were two types of people that ended up here; the kind that wailed, just as the name suggested, and those that were defiant and just downright rude.

The wailing kind sobbed endlessly. The defiant kind barked insults.

Both ended up becoming numb, unfeeling shells of their past selves in no time flat.

In other words, they turned _boring_.

Sure, there were more prisoners here now that Molag Bal had been attempting some special, secret plan that involved souls, but they were still the same.

He wasn't allowed to know about the plan as he wasn't anything but a lowly Churl, but he had heard rumors that it involved a Planemold.

He wasn't entirely sure what that was, but it sounded dark and scary, so it must be.

As he passed under one of the gates that looked like it could crumble at a moment's notice, he nodded to the Dremora's whose shift he was taking over.

The other Daedric servant waved haphazardly before wandering off, looking as bored as He felt. It was always the same here. Prisoners in, memories and humanity drained, boring people left.

"My cousins are out dropping anchors and what do I get?" He muttered sullenly, kicking at the ground with his spiked boot. "Guard duty…"

Why his cousins were so lucky, he wasn't sure. He was a better fighter then all of them combined, but somehow they had gained the attention of someone important and been given tasks more exciting than prison duty.

They were actually getting to taste battle, to lock blades with foes, to kill mortals. He sighed. That was His dream.

"Someday," He vowed. "Someday."

It could be worse, however; one of His neighbors was tasked with sorting soul gems with that stuck up Imperial battlemage. That had to be truly torturous.

He started to walk the halls, although He honestly wasn't sure why this place needed guards. No one ever tried to break out, at least not since He had been here.

Absently He ran his gloved hand over the cell bars and muttered; "Dead, dead, staring off into space, crazy, dead…" as He walked, looking into each section.

"Sobbing, screaming, dead, dead…"

He passed by another cell and stopped, glancing inside. There was another human, one that looked unchanged by the realm's darkness.

Yet.

Clearly, she was one of the new prisoners He'd been hearing about.

She glanced up, squinting at him before getting to her feet uneasily. "Wow, that was disorienting. I hate cultists…always the cultists…" She gave him a once over, frowning. "Hey, what's happening? Can I call you Steve? You look like a Steve…"

He stared.

"What?" he finally said.

He was completely and utterly baffled. This mortal wanted to call him "Steve"? What was a "Steve", and why was she asking? And why wasn't she scared?

"So yes? I can call you Steve?" she insisted, leaning her elbows on the space between the bars.

He crinkled his face in disgust. "No!"

"Alright, then what's your name?"

He paused. "I…I don't have a name,"

Now she crinkled her face. "You don't have a name?" she repeated, sounding skeptical. "That makes no sense. Is that a Daedra thing?"

Before he could reply, she continued; "How does anyone get your attention? Are you numbered? Do they just point and shout, 'hey you'!"

Growing more and more enraged and confused by the mortal, He glowered at her, trying to put on the sharpest, most frightening look He could muster.

She just frowned, "Sorry, didn't mean to offend you. I won't call you Steve, okay?"

Now he was even more confused.

"So, dreadful Dremora number five hundred and eighty six, where is here?" the girl said, looking past him and out into the prison beyond. "Hmm…dark, death motif…could be…Namira, Dagon, Malog Bal…but it's a bluish tint on the lens, so must be…Cold Harbor?"

He stared at her.

She was right, of course, but she was….curious. Mortals were always the same, she was different.

It was like she was already crazy even before she got here.

Her lips curled to a half smile. "Well, this isn't how I planned to spend the day…"

"You realize you aren't ever leaving," He said, hoping to sound ominous. She needed to understand the torment she was going to endure for the rest of eternity.

But all she did was smirk, blue eyes twinkling with something He couldn't figure out.

"We'll see."

* * *

"Dreadful Dremora number four hundred and two!" the mortal girl exclaimed from the floor in her cell. "How's your day going?"

He scowled at her as He walked by, annoyed she wasn't soul-drained yet. Seriously, she was much too happy and carefree for someone locked up and alone. In Cold Harbor. It was supposed to be _awful_.

Plus, she was mocking Him.

"Mortal," He spat as He continued along His way.

He heard her chuckle. "That good, huh?"

He ignored her. Mortals were mortals.

* * *

"Dreadful Dremora number seven hundred and forty three!"

He closed his eyes and counted back from ten. He had tried everything to intimidate her, but nothing worked.

"One of these days I'll guess your assigned number correctly!" she called as he walked past with no interaction.

Was that what she was trying to do?! How infuriating.

* * *

"Dreadful Dremora one thousand one hundred and nine!"

"Stop!" he snapped, wheeling around and barely keeping Himself from drawing His weapon.

"So, not your number?" she asked, gripping the bars.

He seethed, "I don't have a number, I don't have a name. I also don't have time for you, mortal. One day I shall walk by your cell and laugh at your rotting corpse as the rats chew on your bones!"

He expected wide eyes at His obviously frightening speech, but all she did was hold her hands up, lips pulled to an amused smile.

"Whoa." She said. "That was intense. Nice speech. Very scary."

He wanted to kill her, but they had orders to not kill the Soul Shriven in the prison.

Yet.

Her expression fell to a more serious look, smile less mocking and more sympathetic. "Though…sorry. I shouldn't mock you. I won't anymore."

She held her hand through the bars, "Truce?"

He stared at the offered hand, repulsed.

Seriously, what was _wrong_ with her?

He growled and stomped away, wanting to forget the annoying mortal and busy Himself with wandering halls of boring, already depressed shells.

* * *

He braced Himself the next day for her call, but He didn't hear anything when He walked by, and so glanced inside the cell. She was there like always, this time leaning against the far wall. She smirked when she saw Him, but said nothing.

He hesitated.

He was slightly disappointed she was keeping her word.

"…How did you always know it was me?" He asked.

It was foolish to try and have a conversation with a mortal, and a waste of His valuable time. Especially if someone found out.

The girl gave Him a quizzical look, like all foolish mortals did, and so He sighed, explaining; "Whenever I walked by, you were already babbling. How did you know it was me and not one of the other guards?"

She smiled again, "The guard that comes for rounds before you has a limp. The guard that comes after you stomps harder. The guard that sometimes comes instead of you has different facial markings."

He blinked.

She was frightening observant.

He frowned, still surprised she was lucid. By now, most mortals were half mad, or half dead, or would have attempted some foolish escape attempt.

…In fact…

He narrowed his eyes at her, wondering why she hadn't tried to get out yet. She seemed the type.

"I'm watching you," He growled menacingly, continuing on His way before she could retort.

* * *

"An extra shift?" He said, staring at the warden.

The Dremora just stared at him. "Are you complaining?"

He winced. "No, just…curious…why?"

He hoped he didn't sound like a fool.

"Because, one of the other guards was sent on a special mission. We will need to transfer some new Dremora in to keep an eye around here."

"Why now?"

"Stop asking questions!" the warden hissed.

He flinched, realizing He probably shouldn't be asking things like that. It wasn't His place to know.

Besides, He heard they had some new prisoners, maybe that was why they needed extra guards?

"Report to your rounds," the warden commanded, turning to the next Dremora to have the same conversation over again.

* * *

He tried not to drag His feet as He wandered into the endless hallways of cells. This was His job, but why wasn't He picked for the "special" mission? He was just as good with a blade as any of the other guards, and doubly as clever.

It wasn't fair.

Even harassing the mortals wasn't going to cheer Him up. It never did. They were so boring…

Despite His lack of enthusiasm with tormenting mortals, some of the other Dremora forced to do extra rounds in the prison managed to egg Him into coming with them to do so. After all, Dremora loved to pick on humans, or so He always heard.

He couldn't be the only one that didn't think it was fun, though, right?

"Let's push mortals off that cliff up there!" one Catliff suggested, pointing eagerly at a jagged edge.

Another, this one with a long dent in her armor shook her head, "No, no, let's hide behind some rocks and jump out and scare them!"

The assembled group turned to look at Him, clearly waiting for another idea. "Oh…um…let's…do both?" He suggested, unsure. He'd done these things before, but wasn't creative enough to come up with any new ideas Himself.

They cheered and promptly ran off towards the tunnels; "Come on, come on!"

"I'm going to shout out; 'there you are mortals!' and swing my sword!"

"I'm going to throw some fireballs around!"

"I'm going to throw a Banekin at them!"

He had to admit, all of those sounded fun, but they took all the great ideas, what was He supposed to do now?

As they rounded the corner, they walked straight into a group of Soul Shriven sneaking through a gateway.

"What the…" one of the Dremora said.

The mortals saw them and panicked, drawing flimsy weapons and hastily trying to make a mad dash into the plains of Cold Harbor.

They were so fired if they got away.

"Quick! They are running!" the Dremora at the front of the group said, drawing his long swords.

"I'm still gonna throw a Banekin at them!" another shouted, shaking his fist in the air.

The mage of their group charged a fire spell, cloaking themselves first before launching flames at the retreating humans.

He drew his sword and readied a frightening battle cry, only to be beat out by one of the other sword wielders running by him, shouting; "There you are weakling!"

He sagged, annoyed, and followed at a slower pace.

Some of the Soul Shriven were defeated by the magic, another was cut down by a whirlwind of blades. There were only two left, and one was being chased down as the lizard man tried to flee by two Catliffs; he wouldn't make it far.

He paused to look around for the last member of the escaping party in time to see the man throw a dagger and strike the shoulder of the Dremora who was set on throwing banekins.

Surprised by the attack, he stumbled and was about to take a sword to the face. Stepping in, He parried the attack meant for the other Dremora and slashed downward with His great sword, cleaving the human nearly in half.

As the man crumpled to the ground in a bloodied mess, He muttered darkly; "There can be no other end…"

It was a great battle quote, but He didn't feel much excitement over killing the Soul Shriven. It was the first mortal he'd actually landed the killing blow on, and yet…

…It wasn't as awesome as He thought it would be.

Turning, He helped the other Dremora back to His feet after he had fallen. The Kyn looked disappointed. "I didn't get to throw a banekin,"

"Next battle, friend." He assured him, wanting to see that.

Perking up, His new friend nodded.

The two Catliffs returned, cresting the hill and looking despondent.

"What happened?" Another Dremora, the one with the dented armor, inquired.

They exchanged a glance. "He…got away."

"We are so fired…"

The warden was glaring at them. "What in all the realms of Oblivion happened that allowed some worthless, weak-willed Soul Shriven to somehow defeat five Dremora!"

"Well, we got most of them," one of the Catliff said.

Another nodded. "Yes, only one got away."

"One too many! You are all pathetic. I'm asking for new guards." He complained, throwing a tantrum and knocking some urns off his desk. "Seriously…" Turning back, he glared at them all. "Well?! What are you still doing here?! Go do you rounds!"

He raised a hand, "Um, but…you said you were finding new guards, so…are we fired?"

"No you idiot!" the warden shouted. "Out! Go back to work!"

They scattered from the room, muttering under their breath about "unfairness" and "grumpy".

After the already long day, He was not looking forward to a stroll through the prisons…

* * *

"Shut up!" He snapped, kicking at the door of the cell, trying to startle the wailing Soul Shriven inside enough that she shut up.

The crying only got louder at his demands for it to stop.

Typical.

With a groan, He resisted the urge to strangle the nearest thing.

"Bad day?" a familiar voice inquired from down the hall.

Normally, He would have been enraged at the voice, but He realized here was someone He could tell things too and she could do nothing with the information. Debating for a moment over His life decisions, He risked the possible ridicule and wandered over.

The still alive-looking mortal was sitting in her cell, back to the bars and watching Him from her spot on the floor, playing with what looking like metal pins.

She raised an eyebrow at Him as He stopped in front of her.

With a frown, He confessed; "Yes. A bad day."

"Want to talk about it?" she asked.

He hesitated, looked both ways up and down the hallway, and then awkwardly sat down, sitting with His back to her so we wouldn't have to see the ugly human. "Some prisoners decided to try and escape."

"Does that happen a lot?"

"Sometimes," He said. "And…one got away."

"Got away where?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Off into the plains, towards the Vile Laboratory. We still got in trouble by the warden, though…I always get in trouble. I can't seem to do anything right."

"Oh, come on. You're pretty scary,"

He glanced back to look at her, "You don't seem scared,"

"When you've been alive as long as I have, little scares you anymore," she replied with a smile He didn't quite understand.

She shrugged, "So, you got in trouble from the boss. He sounds like a jerk anyway."

He turned back to stare at the opposite cell where a pile of skeletons was. For a moment, He didn't say anything, but then He decided He'd come this far, and was clearly already going mad because He was talking to a mortal in the first place.

"I killed one of the humans."

When she didn't say anything, and He heard no gasps of horror, He turned again to cautiously look at her. She didn't seem fazed.

She blinked at him. "…Isn't that what Dremora do?"

"Well, yes, but…really we only get the…honor of it infrequently."

"Why do you sound so disappointed about it?" she asked, shifting so she could face Him.

He hesitated. "I've never killed one before. I haven't really been in a battle before. It wasn't as…exhilarating as I had hoped."

She frowned thoughtful, twirling the pins between her fingers. "Maybe…you're just not cut out to be the bad guy, Steve."

He cringed at the words and jumped to His feet, outraged. "How dare you mortal!"

She made a face at Him and also stood, "Hey, don't bite my head off, dreadful Dremora. It just sounds like you hate it here. So, either you need to find a different Daedra to serve or you should think about a career as a merchant or something."

Livid, He pointed an armored finger at her, "Foolish mortal, understand that I am a Dremora warrior, sworn to spill the blood of mortals and serve the Daedric Prince Molag Bal, Lord of Lies, Prince of Pain Lord of Domination and-"

She was rolling her eyes and knelt down to fiddle with the lock on her door, jamming and spinning the pins she'd been holding.

"Yeah, well it sounds like a crappy job where no one appreciates you. Humans switch sides all the time, even Elves do it. Maybe you should think about your options."

With a click the lock shook a little and she made a face, adjusting the pins. "Now, go walk the other way so I can get out of here, would you?"

Realizing she was picking the lock right in front of Him, He smacked her hands away from the lock and plucked the pins from her fingers.

"Hey!" she complained. "Rude, Steve…rude…"

"I will allow no more to escape on my watch, mortal," He vowed, ignoring the look she was giving Him. "If you attempt it again, I will strike you down!"

"Well, you can certainly try…" she muttered, sitting back down.

He narrowed His eyes and snarled; "Do not presume to know what it means to be a Dremora. Next we meet, it will be as prey and hunter."

* * *

"You going to Caldwell's party tonight?" His friend asked. They were waiting for the next shift of guards to arrive and were passing the time by trying to juggle daggers. So far, it wasn't going well.

He made a face, "No, Caldwell's parties are weird."

"Yeah, but there's always free food, and we can try to pick up Seducers, you know?" His friend commented, flinging a knife at a banekin that was walking by.

He frowned, "What is your obsession with banekins?"

"I once had one steal my lunch," he answered seriously. "Now I just hate them, little vermin…"

After a moment of silence, He sighed and checked out the door again. "Where is the next shift? This is ridiculous…"

"Maybe one of them got summoned."

"By the warden?"

"No," the other Dremora said, shaking his head. "I mean, _summoned_. To Nirn."

Confused, He tilted His head and His friend blinked. "Wait, did you not hear about that?"

"About what?"

He dropped the daggers he was playing with and stood up straight, "There was totally a general that got summoned to Nirn by some mage guy. He just got pulled from here and summoned there and he didn't have any say in it."

"That's not true, that can't happen! Sure, to lesser Daedra, but…" He said, only to be cut off.

"No, Kyn, it's true. My friend heard it from his sister's neighbor who works with this guy who heard it from his cousin's best friend who lives next to the guy who it happened too. It's got to be true!"

He felt a rush of panic. "Wait, if mortals can summon us…"

"Yeah, it could happen…to anyone." His friend agreed, shuddering. "Can you imagine how awful that must be?"

"I can't fathom it at all," He admitted.

A frightening thought that called in question so much of His life. What if that happened to Him? What if He could never get back to Oblivion? No mortal should ever have that kind of power.

"So, all the more reason to come to Caldwell's party! Between that and probably getting called into the Anchor Moorings to go fight, you never know when you'll get to have fun again."

Feeling a burst of hope, He tried not to sound unsure as He asked; "You really think we'll get called to go to Nirn and fight?"

"With how many anchors Molag Bal is thinking of dropping, they say everyone will get called." His friend said. "Just think! A real battle. A chance to prove ourselves and get named and honored and kill some mortals! This is our chance. It's going to be amazing."

He hoped His friend was right.

* * *

This was it. He had been called along with hundreds of other Dremora to go with the next set of anchors. He was finally going to be in a real battle!

They were being rallied by a speech from Molag Bal himself, towering over them in all his glory.

For excitement over the upcoming battles was so much that he almost forgot to listen to their master.

"Dreadful Dremora of Cold Harbor, sharpen your armor and fasten your blades, for today we drop Dark Anchors from above, into the heart of Tamriel! All shall kneel before me!"

He made a face and leaned over to His friend. "Do you think he meant…sharpen our blades and fasten our armor? The other way doesn't make much sense…"

"I'm…not sure. Do you think we should just assume that?" His friend asked.

"No way. I'm going what I'm told." He said, nodding.

Securing His sword to His back was harder then He thought it would be. To truly fasten it, He needed His friend's help. They both paused and looked at their armor.

"How sharp do you think he meant?" He asked, puzzled.

His friend shrugged. "I don't know, let's ask the general, he's headed this way."

They flagged down the general, an unhappy looking Dremora with bright red facial markers that would have been amusing if he didn't outrank them. They had heard he was named Velek, and something about a pirate, but he couldn't remember the context now.

Velehk was glaring at them, waiting for a question.

"So, um…" he began. "How…sharp?"

The general looked at them like they were fools. "Sharp enough to decapitate each other!" he declared before stalking away.

They both looked at each other. "…How are we going to test that?"

Glancing back to the armor, they both sighed.

"Alright, let's find some banekins…"

"Shouldn't be hard, I think one is on my leg right now, actually."

"See? Vermin."

* * *

Armor sharpened to the point where they could decapitate a banekin with a single finger, and showing many gashes along their bodies from the failed attempts, and swords strapped to their backs with so many belts and cords they would never get them off, they proudly reported to the general, just outside the anchor mooring.

Velehk gave them a once over, "…What is wrong with your armor?"

They both exchanged a glance, and then looked back to him.

"Um…we…sharpened our armor and fastened our blades,"

"As we were told," He added, nodding.

The pirate Dremora let out a long suffering sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Sharpened your armor…Goodness you are _stupid_!"

He dropped his hand and glared at them, "I don't understand what is wrong with you two!"

"But…we were following directions!" He said, opening His hands wide.

The general made a face, "Where are your swords?"

"Er…strapped to our backs? Fastened, actually…"

"Out,"

"Could you maybe help-"

"Out!" Velehk shouted, pointing at the door.

* * *

Unable to go with this round of Dremora, they were forced to turn back and return to the prisons, accepting their old rounds until they were called again. Walking through the front of the gates, He kicked some pebbles out of his way, dejected.

His friend pat His back and promptly pulled his hand back with an "ouch".

"Hey Kyn, we'll get our chance. Just you wait. We'll be bathing in mortal blood this time next phase."

He nodded, "Your right, now is not the time to get discouraged."

"At least we killed Banekins," His friend said, chuckling.

He joined in, sharing a laugh at the misfortune of lesser creatures before the alarm bell interrupted them.

They both raced into the deepest part of the prison, following more Dremora who were headed that way. He realized they were heading for the warden's chambers and began to wonder what had happened.

Then he spotted some Dremora locked in combat with Soul Shriven. Lots of Soul Shriven.

A prison break.

He spotted the same lizard that had gotten away from before fighting some other Churls, shouting about how some plan was in progress, and how the prophet was going to be freed.

A Catliff shoved Him towards one of the tunnels, ordering; "Go! To the warden, aid him in defending the lower levels!"

He nodded and raced off, concerned He wouldn't be much help if He couldn't draw his sword. Still, He was given an order and He would follow it.

The path was lined with smaller skirmishes, but nothing they couldn't handle. Finally He reached the final staircase and quickly descended it, hearing the clash of steel up ahead.

He reached the chamber and saw the warden locked in combat with a tall, blonde human who had an axe. He and two other Dremora attempted to enter the chamber and assist, but just as they stepped forward, the gate crashed into place, blocking them.

A familiar mortal darted from the gate controls, snagging a fallen Dremora's sword and sliding between the other woman and the warden. With the element of surprise and a frightening speed, she managed to get her blade between his armor plates and silt his throat.

In ten seconds, the battle was over. The warden swayed, dropped his sword, and collapsed at the mortal's feet.

The watching Dremora shouted insults, gasp in surprise and rattled the gate, trying to get through.

"I will say this, you are handy in fight, friend," the tall woman said, rushing for the opposite end of the room. "Come on!"

She nodded and bent down to collect another, smaller sword, giving the two a twirl in her hands before turning back to the gate.

Her eyes locked on His and she smirked.

The look said it all; " _Told you I'd get out_."

She raised a blade in farewell before hurrying after her ally, out of sight.

She had actually killed the warden. He supposed He should be angry more Soul Shriven had escaped, but He was still in shock from what had happened.

* * *

Most of the prisoners were found and killed, only a handful had in fact escaped, and overall, the prison break was deemed a failure. Still, He had a feeling that the strange mortal's escape was going to be more important than anyone realized.

Or, maybe He was just slightly disappointed because He wouldn't be able to see her eventually go crazy and die in this place.

Either way, He was having a bad day.

Luckily, they didn't receive any harsh punishments for the prison break. He wasn't the only one having a bad day.

Molag Bal's forces at one of the anchor points met resistance from the locales, some town in some snowy place. Buma? Bummer? Broom?

Something like that.

General Pirate Guy Velehk had reportedly died from decapitation from one of the other Dremora. An accident, inflicted by armor spikes.

"We weren't the only ones!" He whispered to His friend, who nodded, looking relieved.

The destruction of the anchor prompted days of intense training, since clearly they were too weak to overwhelm the mortals.

The training coupled with His usual shifts at the prison made Him cranky and tired. But the promise of a real battle kept Him going.

After weeks of preparation, the call finally came; Molag Bal was going to drop dark anchors into all of Tamriel. There would be dozens, perhaps hundreds of anchors! Surely now He would be chosen to go into glorious battle.

It was a long time before He was summoned back to the mooring, so long, in fact, that He began to wonder if they wouldn't call Him! But surely they were nearing the full scale invasion of the mortal world, and surely they needed more Dremora to throw at the futile resistance, and surely He would get His chance.

He hoped.

* * *

Finally He and several others were summoned, prodded into a circular room within the mooring, and filed into a line headed for the drop zone.

This was it! He was going to taste real battle.

His skin tingled with anticipation and His fingers fidgeted, ready to grab His sword at a moment's notice.

He leaned around the large Xivali in front of Him so He could see.

The swirling mass of magicka in the center of the room pulsed with each creature that stepped through it, heading down to kill mortals. One after the other.

A Clanfear.

Winged Twilight.

Another Clanfear.

A Dremora.

Another Dremora.

Closer and closer to His turn. He wanted to cut the line, but He assumed that would get Him in trouble, so He forced Himself to remain calm and in place.

The Xivali in front of Him hopped down, and any moment He would get the signal to go Himself and would-

"They've pulled the last pinion! Drop the general!" Molag Bal's voice echoed around the room.

He looked around. "Wait, wha-"

But He was pushed back, out of the way, as a large, obviously over-fed Dread Clanfear waddled up to the vortex and hopped down, followed by some of those weird rotting Dragur. He made a face at the smell as they dropped down as well and then slumped once the vortex closed.

"So…did we win?" He asked the Dremora next to him. She shrugged. "I doubt the mortals could have stopped all the creatures we dropped."

"But…aren't the pinions the things that keep the anchors…you know…anchored?" He asked, scratching His head. "So, if those get pulled, then….wouldn't that mean we lost?"

The Dremora looked at him with contempt. "How should I know?" she snapped.

He winced, not sure why she was so prickly. He was just curious!

And suddenly He was being ushered to another room, where another vortex was, and He couldn't get anyone to explain to him what was going on. He figured this must be another anchor, but why in the world would they need another if they had overrun the mortals at the last one?

He was so confused.

Once again, He was nearing His turn towards the portal when it was abruptly shaken and someone called out for the final enemies to be dropped.

As He was steered to _another_ room, He figure that didn't mean Him.

This time He slipped behind a pair of taller Xivali to avoid the hustle of the room altogether, and finally got a look at what was going on. An anchor was just dropping; He could make out the shapes of the Worm Cultist below, worshipping.

Slowly, the humans were sucked up, vanishing as they reached the threshold of the vortex. He wasn't entirely sure what happened to them then, but He figured they must end up somewhere in Cold Harbor.

One was sucked up. Two…

Suddenly, He saw a cultist go down, face first. He wasn't sure what hit him, since He didn't see any bursts of magic. Perhaps an arrow?

A horde of mortals was upon the remaining cultist, and within moments, they were all dead.

His eyes widened, surprised by the ferocity of the humans in battle. They were just as fierce as Dremora, but they used unfamiliar tactics.

He was distracted from them cutting down some Clanfears by Molag Bal himself walking in, barking orders at Velehk, the general standing nearby.

"Well, they just-"

"I know! They just killed a bunch of my creatures!" Molag Bal cut him off, angrily stomping around. "How?"

Velehk shrugged. "They are really strong?"

Molag glared at him.

Velehk winced.

"Milord, the final pinion was pulled!" a winged twilight screeched out. "What should we do?!"

"Drop Ogrims, three of them!" Molag commanded, pointing off to the other side of the room.

He watched in morbid fascination as the mortals destroyed the monster sent and the last pinion, the last link of Cold Harbor to Nirn, was broken.

Animus went up in smoke around the anchor and the vortex wobbled, becoming unstable.

"Pointless!" Molag Bal's voice echoed. "Ten anchors drop a week!"

The humans below exchanged a series of glances.

"Ten a week?" a familiar blonde questioned. "Totally doable! I've destroyed four already, let's go find the other six!"

The other mortals present all nodded.

"Yeah!"

"Ten is easy,"

"We'll make it a weekly tradition, then!"

Molag Bal made a face, "Er…I mean…ten billion drop a week!"

He leaned over to Velehk. "Is that a lot? I can't remember how mortals number things."

"Um. Yeah. It's a lot." Velehk replied hesitantly.

"Too many?" Molag Bal asked.

"Dial it back, dial it back…"

Clearing his throat, Molag Bal spoke again; "I mean…ten dozen hundred!"

The mortals below all exchanged confused looks.

"May your soul burn," Molag Bal said in closing, quickly, before cutting off the connection and sitting back. He sighed.

"I didn't know sound could transmit through these portals…" The Daedric lord complained. "No one told me about that in the design meetings."

Velehk shrugged. "They're mortals. We'll get them at the next one, or they'll grow tired and fatigued like all mortals do. Ten or…um..ten dozen hundred. Either way, we'll win."

Molag Bal didn't appear to be listening. "Hmm…I'll need to come up with more threats if they can hear me…"

* * *

After what felt like a dozen phases, He had decided he was sick of reporting to anchors only to be ignored. He was always the last one in line, or the humans cheated and pulled all the pinions and Molag Bal dropped a general, or someone cut Him in line and He missed his chance.

It didn't help that the anchors were rapidly being destroyed. As soon as they dropped, a horde of mortals was upon them, cutting down the creatures that fell like tissue paper.

It had been going on so long, that He had personally seen Velehk get killed five times.

It was…depressing.

Despite these displays, Molag Bal assured them all the plan was in place, and that this Planemeld was on schedule and would happen.

He wondered if He was the only one that was starting to have doubts.

Another anchor, another chance to be dropped into combat but He didn't see it happening, and so sat down on a nearby ledge, next to His Churl friend.

"Sup?" His friend asked, munching on some raw pork. "You look glum."

"This is so stupid," He complained. "I'm just as good as any of these other Kyn! Why do I never get picked?"

"You should feel lucky," his friend said, dropping his voice. "I mean, you've seen what those savage humans do, right? I saw Velehk get burned to ash before his feet even hit the ground. And sometimes, they play music while we're getting slaughtered, or dance once the anchor is destroyed. Monsters…"

His friend gestured to the vortex as a Clanfear hopped down and was promptly impaled by a beam of light.

"See? Game over, Kyn. Game over."

"Yeah, but…" He sighed. "I guess you're right."

"And watch what they do after they've won," he continued, pointing once more. "They loot our corpses. Who does that?"

"Mortals," they both chimed, shaking their heads.

"The last pinion has been pulled!" Molag Bal bellowed. "Again! Velehk, get down there."

"What?!" Velehk said, "Nah uh, I just got recast from the animus. I'm not going back! Besides, that's not even my zone!"

Molag Bal glared at him and nodded to the Xivali behind him, who shoved him into the vortex.

"Anyone else want to say anything?" he growled, looking around the room.

The Churl raised his hand. He gave him a wide-eyed look and scooted over, wondering if His friend had lost it.

"Um…I think you should throw some banekins at them,"

"Good idea!" Molag Bal said, kicking some Banekins from his feet into the vortex.

"I'm not stupid," His friend whispered. "He always sends someone with the general, and it's not going to be me, you know? Not with a push over like Velehk."

"True,"

They heard a voice come back through the magicka channels; "Boo!"

He leaned over the portal to get a good look as a woman used her foot to slid Velehk's body off of one of her swords.

Her again.

Apparently she was still alive.

"Boo!" she shouted again, making a thumbs down sign. "We want the seducer sisters!"

"Yeah!" some other gathered mortals shouted.

"They're the only general I haven't killed yet! Give me the seducer sisters!" the woman shouted.

It began a chant among the gathered humans;

"Seducer Sisters!"

"Seducer Sisters!"

"Seducer Sisters!"

Molag Bal growled, talons breaking off bits of his chair arms. "I can't, because I can't find them! Where in Oblivion are they? I want them here, now! I've lost dozens of anchors in the Alik'r desert because this little band of mortal misfits is camping out, waiting for them!"

"We don't know where the seducers are," a Xivali explained. "We've been looking, but can't find them."

"How hard can it be? They hang out at the brothels!" Molag complained, slamming a hand on his chair and breaking what was left of it.

"We checked all of them! And by all, I mean the only one there is in Cold Harbor," the Xivali said.

A Dremora Fearkyn looked around hesitantly. "Did you…check the _other_ one?"

"What ' _other_ ' one?" Molag demanded.

The Fearkyn looked uncomfortable. "It's…a secret brothel, one where the worst kind of immorality takes place."

There was a pause, and then he spoke in a hushed, horrified voice.

"Cuddling."

Everyone present shuddered at the concept.

"Not, that, I mean, not like I've ever been there," The Fearkyn laughed nervously, fixing his hood that was already fine. "I just…like, I heard this other Dremora mention it, so…"

"Find it, and find out if that's where the seducers are. I want them dropped so at least my anchors don't keep getting destroyed!" Molag Bal complained. "I'm running low on Worm Cultist. Despite what I originally thought, they don't grow on trees. I think Mannimarco was being facetious when he said that. And these anchors take a long time to make! Stupid mortals…"

"Er, yeah, about that…" A Xavali said, gesturing to a nearby anchor mooring. "You just lost another one in Alik'r."

Molag Bal groaned and face palmed.

* * *

He couldn't believe He had let His friend talk Him into this. Sneaking into one of the anchor rooms and using the voice transmitter to impersonate Molag Bal.

Apparently, no matter who used the transmitter, their voice always sounded deep and threatening like the Daedric Lord. His friend and some other Dremora were sneaking into a room where they could transmit to multiple anchors.

Molag Bal had had it constructed after the humans made good on their promise to make anchor destroying a weekly tradition. They had lost hundreds of anchors in that time, and Molag was growing more and more enraged over the defeats.

As they slipped into the room, He looked around warily. "What if we get caught?"

"We won't," a female Dremora hissed. "We'll do a few and leave. No one will ever find out."

The others in their group of five nodded. He swallowed down his unease and followed them forward. They stood around a weird looking crystalline column where they could view different anchors being dropped, attacked, and destroyed around Nirn. Each anchor displayed in a facet of the crystal.

One Dremora, a bulky looking male with lopsided facial markings, proved to be the bravest and touched one of the facets first. His voice boomed over an anchor that had just been destroyed.

" _The skins of those you love will fly as my banners._ "

Afterwards, they all hollered.

"Good one!"

"That was so scary!"

The female hopped up and down, "My turn! My turn!"

" _When oath bounds are weak, there is pain, and shame, and darkness_ …."

Again, they all clapped and congratulated her on the terrifying saying.

His friend was up next. He excitedly waited as the humans finished off the Dread Harvester below and pulled the last pinion.

"Um….uh…" he stuttered. "Pineapples to your enemies!"

They looked at him.

"What?"

"I panicked!" he exclaimed, looking flustered.

They rolled their eyes. "He's not allowed to go again."

"Oh, come on! Give me another chance!"

As they teased him and he pleaded to go again, they were interrupted by a familiar voice; "What are you doing in here?!"

They turned and saw Velehk standing in the doorway, arms crossed and a scowl on his face.

"Er…." The female said, chuckling nervously. "Velehk. I see you've been recast from the animus."

"Yes, and I asked you a question, Catliff!" he hissed.

They all exchanged a worried glance, only to be startled when the bulky male rushed forward, pushed Velehk out of the room and over the side of a vortex, down into Nirn where an anchor was.

He turned and shrugged. "He'll get killed and recast and loose some memories, probably the ones of us in here. Let's split."

They all chuckled and ran off in different directions.

* * *

Molag Bal was throwing a tantrum.

Well, no one would say that to his face, but his own daughter Molag Grunda had scoffed about it and rolled her eyes, saying as much.

Apparently his planemeld plan failed, all because of some mortals, one of whom was an unknown soulless shell that the Worm Cult had sacrificed.

He was pretty sure He knew exactly who that was, assuming the mortal in question had blonde hair and a sly smirk.

The news of the failed planemeld was brought to the general Dremora public byt Molag's son, Ozzozachar. The Titan had given a grabbled message about the plan, and new plans, and old plans. The Titan had never been good at speaking, especially under pressure.

He was also sporting a new scar across his eye that he refused to talk about.

Rumors began swirling that it was the mortals who had done it too him.

The speech did little to calm an already twitchy army, ready to fight with no way to go into battle.

Molag's temper and constant tossing of objects into the skies of Cold Harbor didn't help, although no one had actually seen him since the failed plan. Rumors were swirling about that, too. Something about him being too weak to appear.

But that just couldn't be true. He was a Daedra lord, after all.

"So, some Kyn left the other day,"

He turned to his Dremora friend. "Left?"

"Yeah, rumor has it a bunch of Kyn and some others left Cold Harbor. They say some other Daedra are planning something now that Molag Bal's plan failed." His friend said, nodding smartly.

"You…aren't thinking of leaving, are you?" He asked, unsure.

His friend scratched his head, "Well…no…yeah?"

"Yeah?"

His friend shrugged. "I wanted to fight. You feel it too, right? The way your blood boils at the thought of combat? We were promised that much, promised glory and blood and we ended up getting nothing."

He shook his head. "I want to experience the thrill of battle, it's what we all want. Nothing is happening here, and who knows how long it will be until Molag Bal is even…you know….seen."

He thought about it long and head.

Leave?

It sound easy enough, but he'd never been outside of Cold Harbor. Where would he go? What would he do?

"You should come with me," his friend said, speaking up again. "Come on, what do you say? We'll make a name for ourselves, a real name! Just the two of us."

"But…" he stammered. "Where would we go?"

"I don't know yet, but that's half the fun. Think of the adventures we'd have!"

He wasn't so sure.

To cross to another realm of Oblivion, they would have to wander through unknown and uncharted territories. What if they got lost in the formless, confusing maze of the void? What if the next Daedra had a plan that failed too?

"I don't know…" He said, hesitating. "I've always been here, in Cold Harbor…I'm sure Molag Bal will come up with a new plan."

His friend frowned, "I thought you might stay…I'll miss you, but I feel like I need to go and find my glory, find…a new master."

"I understand," He said, nodding. He would miss his friend, the first real one he'd ever had, but he just couldn't leave.

They clasped hands and said farewell.

"Kill some banekins for me?"

"Always."

* * *

"We're going to have to let you go," an impressive looking Xivali told him.

He stared for a moment, shocked.

"What?"

"We're going to have to let you go," the Xivali repeated slowly.

He glared at him. "I heard you, I just don't understand! I've worked in the Wailing Prison for…for…well, my whole existence!"

"I know," the other Daedra said patiently. "But as you are aware, things have changed around here. A lot of projects are under new management, and you are just on the wrong side of the clan battles, Churl."

He groaned. "I don't even remember which clan is which! They are basically the same, and so big…How do you even know what clan I'm in? And how come I'm being fired now? This new management change happened phases ago!"

The Xivali smiled a disarming yet infuriating grin. "You aren't being fired," he assured him. "You're being let go. And the change is happening now because it simply is."

"What mushroom did you snort to sound so…" He hesitated, grasping for a word. "…Calm."

"None," the taller Daedra said, still smiling. "I'm simply enjoying my new position and looking to the future for all the opportunities it provides."

He cringed, swallowing back vomit. Denizens of Oblivion were not supposed to sound so cheery.

"Now, we don't want you to feel completely unsure of your future, so I've prepared some transfer papers to the Scathe-rings"

"The Scathe-rings!" He shouted, outraged. "I don't deserve that! I've worked hard here, I've done everything anyone's ever asked of me! I should be in the army, I should be ready for war!"

The Xivali held up a hand to stall His arguments. "And, in the future, we may have need of those services. For now, we need more Kynpower in the Scathe-rings."

He growled, angry and upset. He should have left with His friend all those phases ago.

"You know what, I'm never going to be called to service, because Molag Bal is stupid and lazy and doesn't have a new plan! He can't even get rid of a city in his own plane of Oblivion! A city Meridia stuck there! In fact, I think he got beat by a girl. A tiny, weak, mortal human girl."

The Xivali stared at him for a moment. "You might not want to say things like that."

"Oh, he isn't even paying attention to us," He snapped. "You know why? Because we're not important!"

"He can still hear you," the other Kyn whispered harshly. "So shut up!"

"No, you shut up! I'm a Dremora! I live for battle and blood and glory!"

"Well, live for that somewhere else." a voice said from behind him.

He turned and saw a group of Dremora behind him, all scowling and looking generally unhappy. It was a welcome sight after the overly friendly Xivali.

"We're here to…. _escort_ you out of Cold Harbor."

"Yeah, you're not even important enough to get tortured. Molag Bal just wants you gone." another said, snickering.

"Well, he's still stupid," He muttered, kicking at the ground.

The lead Dremora shook his head. "First Velehk, now you. What is Oblivion coming too these days?"

"Velehk?"

"He ranted and raved and left a little while ago. He was mad about something or other. Who cares? Never trust a pirate, I say!" the smallest of the Dremora said.

The leader flicked a hand. "Never mind that! Come on, we're kicking you out."

True to their word, they 'escorted' Him to what was the known edge of Cold Harbor; a sharp drop off on one side of the 'world'.

"Too bad you'll never see us again, you could tell us all about whatever is out…there." one Dremora taunted, grinning madly.

"He'll become vapor as soon as he leaves," another said, shaking his head.

He glared at all of them. "Yeah, yeah, laugh it up! Someday I'll have a great and powerful name and even here, in this realm, you'll hear it, know it, and fear it!"

The group looked at each other, clearly disbelieving.

"It's true!" He screeched.

"Whatever," the leader said, reaching out to shove Him.

He ducked and spun around, running towards the edge a little ways off. He wasn't about to give them the pleasure of dumping Him off Cold Harbor, and He wasn't about to give Himself time to second guess the idea of jumping.

As He fell, He began to wonder if this feeling that made his skin tingle was something mortals felt. That strange, visceral sensation.

Fear.

* * *

 **Author's Note: So, this is a project I've been working on for a good long while...part 1 of 3! It turned out to have a serious element too it, even though it's a comedy. I hope you all enjoy ;)**

 **There are a ton of references to Elder Scrolls Online in this part of the story, but I hope even if you haven't played it, it's fun to read. Before the Tamriel One update I played a ton of ESO and the Dark Anchors, Molag Bal's main weapon, were my favorite thing to destroy. My brother and I used to try for 100 every week. I'm not even kidding. I really did kill Velehk at least once a week, and I'm very proud to this day of my "Daedric Lord Slayer" title (you get it for killing every named general at the dark anchors...even those Seducers who I had to grind to find...lol)**

 **When my brother and I first started playing ESO, Molag Bal said "ten anchors drop a week" which we always laughed about because we destroyed so many. But then when one of the update patches went into effect, suddenly he said "ten drop for each that is destroyed". Clearly that was because of us.**

 **Also, for those wondering, yes, the blonde mortal is my character. I imagine that since she is Dragonborn, she has the soul of a dragon, meaning she is technically immortal, at least in terms of time. She can die if killed, but mere time has no effect on a second-born of Akatosh. Hence why she wasn't as effected by her time in Cold Harbor; she doesn't have just a mortal soul. In my head, she's been alive since the Direnni Hegemony (Circa 1E 355ish), born on the island of Balferia, since she IS a Breton...**

 **...I'm such a nerd.**

 **ANYWAY, I had a ton of fun researching even more then I already knew about the Dremora, which are indeed interesting, and this story is a little different from my others.**

 **Parts 2 and 3 are in the works, but I'm not sure when they will appear.**

 **Until then, enjoy!**


	2. They serve the strong,

**Story of Steve part 2!**

* * *

It took a long time to learn how to simply _be_ outside of Cold Harbor. The malleable nature of the Void between realms was disconcerting and disorienting. Somehow it was like everything and nothing at the same time.

After He figured out how to exist, then to think and finally how to move, He set out to discover a place to belong. There were limitless Oblivion realms, pocket dimensions and cracks in between, but He wasn't trying to simply exist, He was trying to find a purpose, a master, a home.

With goals in mind, He nodded and took the first step into his future.

Malacath, the Daedric Lord of the shamed and the outcast was a good place to start. After all, wasn't that exactly what He was?

But when He arrived at the fringes off Ashpit, the area was difficult to traverse, as it wasn't made of anything substantial to stand on. It was as if the air was made of nothing but bitter smoke and rage. He found it difficult to move forward, so instead raised His voice and called forth in hopes of summoning Malacath.

"Malacath! Keeper of the Sworn Oath and the Bloody Curse, I beseech an audience with your…um…really strong lordship."

At first, nothing happened, and He wondered if Malacath had even heard him, and if he had, if he would bother to pay attention.

Then, a voice like an earthquake managed to shake even the flimsy smoke surrounding him.

"Who dares enter my realm, uninvited?!"

He winced, "Um…" what did He say? He didn't have a name or any great deeds to attribute to Himself.

"I am a Dremora, seeking glory and battle!"

That was the truth, and He felt a surge of relief for coming up with something that sounded so good. He wasn't great at on the spot declarations or answering questions.

Malacath's booming voice barked a laugh.

"A lowly Dremora Churl seeing glory? Seeking battle? Go find that with your Daedra Prince, Churl."

He scowled, relief replaced with annoyance. "I can't! I got fired from my job, kicked out of Cold Harbor. I need a new master."

"Ah!" the voice interrupted. "The truth comes out! You seek not battle, you seek not even I, Malacath, you seek _comfort_ in familiarity."

His annoyance sparked to anger. "What?! How dare you! I am a Dremora, we live for the splendor of battle, for serving those strongest. I came to you because you are the patron of those scorned, of the outcast! I need a purpose, a new master."

"I do not take weaklings into my realm," Malacath snapped. "You have not even killed before!"

"I have too!"

"A Soul Shriven doesn't count," the Daedra Prince pointed out. "I mean a true life. Soul Shriven have no souls, no minds most of the time. You have yet to spill blood, and still you come to me? A Dremora fired from his job is not the same as those scorned."

He flinched at the harsh words. They weren't entirely untrue, but He still disagreed all the same. He was still an outcast, still in need of something or someone.

Malacath continued; "You are a child, Churl, a weakling who is not fit to be a warrior. Perhaps you'll do better as a merchant? I've heard some of your kind prefer that life,"

His hands tightened into fists even as the words echoed something of truth. He wasn't a warrior. Not yet.

But Dremora were always warriors. Always fighting and serving.

He hadn't heard of these 'merchants' before, but He had no reason to even trust that Malacath spoke the truth.

"If I let every creature into my realm that had a tantrum, I'd be overrun with emo teenagers!"

"You know what?!" He snapped. "You're the one who is weak, Malacath. You couldn't even stop yourself from becoming this thing. No wonder the other Daedra say you aren't really a Prince! You're the child, the one who hides in his room all the time bitter at the unfairness of the world."

In retrospect, that wasn't the wisest course of action.

The smoke in the realm turned red and stopped moving, as if everything in the realm suddenly froze with the hottest of fires.

" _Excuse me?!"_ Malacath's voice seethed.

He winced, "Er…I'm going to show myself out. Have a great day your….um…scornedness."

"Get back here, Churl!"

"Nope!"

He turned and walked quickly towards the edges of the realm, breathing to Himself, "Time to go!"

As the rantings of Malacath faded behind Him, He slowed His pace and sighed.

That could have gone better, but now He knew that Malacath would never accept him. Not until He already had glory. But He couldn't do that without a master.

What a terrible cycle to be in.

" _Maybe your just not cut out to be the bad guy, Steve."_

He shook His head, banishing that ridiculous notion.

There were more Princes to visit, surely He'd find somewhere to belong.

* * *

" _I…..have….learned….that…..time….is…._."

He looked out over the creepy, hazy oceans of slime again, for what had to be the hundredth time since stumbling into Apocrypha.

He just couldn't figure out what exactly was even going on here.

Books were flying.

And those tentacles freaked Him out, if He were being honest.

" _That…..is…..the…truth…..of…..knowledge_ ,"

He refocused His attention on the mass of eyeballs and limbs and darkness in the sky. How long had He been standing here? His legs kind of ached.

" _And….that…..is…..your….task, to…prove….you…..can….serve…me_."

He paused, blinking a few times. "Um…could you repeat that? I…kind off spaced out, you talked so long."

The eyeballs all closed and opened as one. " _You…..are…..fired…..get…out_ ,"

He sagged, "Well, he said that fast enough…."

* * *

"Have a drink!" A Seducer said, practically throwing a drink at Him.

Some of it managed to splatter on his armor, but most just fell on the floor.

He made a face and belatedly tried to catch it. "….Thanks."

"Suuuure!" she slurred, before falling over on the floor in a fit of laughter.

Looking around the dimly lit cavern, He made a face and wrinkled his nose. Everything was a mess, and everyone there was impressively drunk.

"So, is this all you do? Get drunk?" He asked, confused.

A Dremora flicked a hand at him from his chair, slumped over it. In his other hand were two mugs. "Nah, we….do…stuff. Yeah, stuff."

"Like?" He asked, sidestepping a set of two Seducers twirling around in a sloppy dance.

"Stuff!" Another Dremora echoed from the back of the room.

The first guy pointed in that direction and nodded.

"But what about battles and glory?" He asked, unsure how any citizen of Oblivion could live without those core values.

"Pssshhhhh," a Dremora said. She was on the floor, curled up with bottles all around her. "Whast wrong with takin' breaks and….huh? Whats was I sayin'?"

"Look," a Dremora with long claw-like scars on his face said, walking over on unstable steps to sling an arm around the newcomer's shoulders. He tried not to make a face or twitch at the contact.

"Every day here is a battle…a battle against our constitution!" the Dremora exclaimed.

"Yes!" a Seducer chimed in, rising her mug. "And to the Daedroth for which it stands!"

A Xivilai picked himself off the floor partway to continue one; "For we the not-people, to form a more perfect party, have decided that we will not go quietly into the night, for this is our independence day!

"There may come a day when the frothiness of our drinks fail, and we forsake the bonds of fellowship in our cups, but today is not that day, or night, for that matter!" the first Dremora continued.

All three voices chimed the last part; "One thing, or the other thing, invisible, with beer, mead and wine for all!"

The gathered group all cheered and hollered.

He blinked a couple of times. "Yeah….I'm going to pass on that drink,"

"Boo!"

"Party pooper!"

"Get outta here, you…you….lame kyn!"

A Seducer ran in, wild grin on her face. "Conga line!"

"Yeah!"

He shook his head and headed for the door. Parties had never been his thing anyway.

* * *

He stared in disgust at the darkened, foggy plane that stretched out before Him. The floor was crawling.

Literally.

There was nothing but worms, spiders, maggots, centipedes and other repulsive creatures to be seen.

"….No," He said, shaking his head and backing up slowly.

* * *

He squinted at the amount of garish colors and sights that assaulted His senses.

The realm of Moonshadow had a certain charm to it, something about the whole place made Him feel euphoric, but it was also almost painful.

It smelled like what He imagined flowers smelled like. He wasn't sure, Cold Harbor didn't have very many of them, after all.

The sky was a constantly changing array of rainbows, stars and sunsets. Sometimes He swore it was all at once.

"Are you alright?" His Winged Twilight guide asked in her screeching voice. She paused to hover in the air next to him.

"Yes, it's just…" He stifled a cough. "…colorful."

"Oh," she said, drawing the word out. "Yes, I always forget some things find this realm to be too much to bear. It's beauty mirrors the Mistress of our realm, Azura of the Crimson Gate, Queen of Dawn and Dusk, Mother of the Rose, Queen of the Night Sky,"

"Yes," He said loudly, cutting her off. "You've mentioned. Many times."

The Winged Twilight laughed, which made Him cringe.

"Oh my, you must understand, she is truly beautiful, and should also be loved."

They continued on their way past waterfalls of silver and gold, making what appeared to be little progress towards the rose tower in the distance.

"When you met our wonderful Lady, be sure to tell her how lovely she looks. She likes that."

"How vain is she?" He asked, sneezing. More flowery smells were wafting around them. He swore it was poison.

His guide gasped in utter shock and whacked him upside the head with her wing. "Heresy! How dare you insult her?!"

She looked around and flew in closer, whispering; "Between you and me? Really vain. Spends most of her time using her powers to fix her hair or change appearances altogether."

He frowned. "Oh."

"But she is nice," the Winged Twilight said, pulling back. "Not a meanie like some of the others. All we have to do is spend our who existence loving her, and she'll love us back."

"Isn't that like the opposite of actual love?" He asked, stifling another sneeze.

Seriously, the flowers…

"What would a Dremora know of love?" The Twilight giggled, flying forward once more. "You are silly, little Churl. But I'm sure our benevolent Lady will like you. She likes everyone, our Azura of the Crimson Gate, Queen of Dawn and Dusk, Mother of the Rose, Queen—"

"I know!" He snapped, only to sneeze again. His eyes were starting to water.

"I thought Molag Bal had a big ego and had too many titles, really…" He muttered, wiping his face to clear away the pollen.

He got whacked again. "Dremora! So rude! This is why we usually don't let Kyn in,"

"Hey," He said, frowning. "That's not very nice,"

"I am as kind as our Mother Azura, Queen of Dawn and Dusk, Mother of the rose, Queen of the Night Sky!"

"Ugh! He growled, "Stop saying her titles! I get it, she's pretty and special."

"Indeed!"

He looked around at all the flowers. "I…think I'm allegoric to these,"

The Winged Twilight looked back at Him.

"Hmm…you do look rather ill…"

Suddenly, a figure stood in front of them, radiating power that only a Daedric Prince could wield.

"Oh!" The Winged Twilight exclaimed gleefully. "Azura of the Crimson Gate, Queen of Dawn and Dusk, Mother of the Rose, Queen of the Night Sky, our beloved Lady! You have come to greet us!"

He looked and saw that somehow, they had reached the base of the rose tower. He decided not to be surprised; Oblivion was an odd place.

Azura basked in the praise of her servant, flipping her hair.

"This is the Dremora, looking for a home." The Winged Twilight said, flapped a few paces away so Azura could step forward to see Him.

"My, a Dremora that hasn't tried to tear up the place yet." Azura said, laughing. It was a delightful sound. "What brings you here, Churl?"

He sneezed, despite his efforts not too, but answered her question regardless. "I seek a new master, one that will lead me to battle."

"Oh, fame and glory? Vanity of a different sort, hmm?" she teased.

He paused, "…You heard that,"

"I hear all in my realm. The benefits of not being consumed with trying to destroy or claim." She replied. "I have more time and power to help those that adore me, those that serve me. Those that love me."

"You aren't mad?" He asked, cautious and ready to run.

She laughed again, "Dearest Churl, no, I am not. My sphere might be the magic between Dusk and Dawn, the hidden things none may know, the secret realms, but it is also one of vanity and egotism. I am the patron of all things beautiful, and with such splendor as mine, pride surely follows."

He would admit, she was beautiful, in a terrible sort of way. Her appearance was something He could never describe, but it was elegant and blinding at the same time.

"So, Kyn, tell me; what do you seek, and do you believe you could find it here?"

He paused. He got the feeling this was not a question hastily answered. As gentle as Azura seemed, he suspected she could be just as cruel in a heartbeat.

"I…seek somewhere to belong." He answered at last.

She gave him a knowing smile. "And?"

"No, I don't think it can be found here. Not for me." He answered honestly.

She wasn't angry, in fact she looked pleased. "Very well, Churl. You may leave. I don't believe you can love me as much as I deserve, so I do not think our partnership would be advised."

He sneezed again and she laughed.

"Besides, you seem allergic to my precious roses."

Azura turned to leave but He stopped her; "Do you know where I should go?"

She glanced over her shoulder, looking curious. He elaborated; "I've heard you can grant visions,"

"Ah," she replied, turning back around. "Giving mortals visions and truths is easy. It is much harder with beings from Oblivion. We are too similar, you see."

She eyed him for a moment, "However, I know that you will find what you seek in a place you don't expect, and I see gold and blue, but nothing more than that."

He frowned, disappointed.

"Don't despair, Kyn," Azura commented, "Now, you must go."

She waved her hand and He was suddenly outside her realm and the nasty flowers. As the vision of Moonshadow left Him, He heard His Winged Twilight guide one last time; "Bye Dremora! Good luck, may Azura of the Crimson Gate, Queen of Dawn and Dusk, Mother of the Rose, Queen of the Night Sky, our beloved Lady's true words of beauty guide you home!"

He rolled his eyes.

That was a waste of time, but as least He would never have to hear those titles again or smell those horrid flowers.

* * *

When He had offered to listen to why the Nocturnal was sad, He hadn't expected to spend so long listening to her babble on about nonsense.

Currently He was awkwardly patting her back as she sat in a depressed, listless heap.

"Um…Are you sure you're alright?" He asked.

"This is common for us," she said, voice flat. "We have much melancholy."

"…Have you tried like…..potions for that?"

She shrugged, but otherwise didn't move.

There was a long awkward moment of mopey silence. As the minutes dragged on, He wracked His brain to find something uplifting or helpful to say. He was never really good with words.

"Um…so…do you think Nocturnal will want to meet with me? Do you think she'll let me work for her?"

The Daedra woman gave him a look, melancholy apparently forgotten. "You do realize that our lady is the Mistress of Shadows, right?"

"…Yes," He replied, not sure where this was going.

"Your about as stealthy as a Daedroth and as mysterious as a scamp."

He blinked. "So…no, she won't want me to work for her?"

The Nocturnal rolled her eyes, "No, she doesn't."

"Then why did you even let me in this realm?" He questioned.

"I was lonely, and I wanted someone to talk too," she admitted.

He sighed.

She sighed.

He frowned, realizing she was slipping back into melancholy.

He did promise to listen to her problems, it would be rude to just leave. He was going to be here awhile…

* * *

"I am Mephala, Webspinner, Spinner, Spider, Teacher of the Secret Arts, Queen of the Eight Shadows of Murder and more. I tug at the web of creation, and unravel the secrets of mortals. I am the Spiral Skein, and the Spiral Skein is I."

"…I'm still not sure what you do," He admitted, looking down at the spider.

It managed to somehow frown.

"Seriously? You've never heard of me?"

He shook His head, feeling like He was walking on thin ice. "Oh, no, no. I've heard of you, great Mephala, I just…don't really understand your whole thing."

"My whole thing?" The spider hissed. "I just told you!"

"Yes, I get the spinner thing with the webs and…you know…" He waved around the darkened cave at the spiders and webs and general creepy appearance. "All this…but…what do you do?"

Mephala sighed. "Sex, murder and lies. That make enough sense for you?"

He recoiled at the sudden change in her voice. The slow, seductive tone was gone and replaced by something biting and to the point. A completely different sounding tone.

"Er…yes. I understand."

"Good. Now, what do you want? I have lies, murders and sex to plan!"

He bit back a question regarding how that all worked, being that she…or he…was a spider….or…not?

He shook his head. This was all so confusing. Working under Molag Bal was so much easier.

"I'm looking for work. Got any leads?" He asked, being as straightforward as He could to match her attitude.

"Hmmm….." the spider said, lifting up one front leg to tap what might have been a chin area. "Let me think….let me…think…"

"Can you lie?"

"Not well…"

"Kill? Are you good at killing?"

"Yes," He answered as firmly as possible.

All eight eyes blinked at him. "So, no, and you were telling the truth about the lying too. I'm not even going to ask about my third favorite vice. Dremora aren't really the best at that."

He wasn't sure if He should be insulted or not.

"I'm afraid you just aren't my type of agent, Dremora." Mephala said. The voice was gradually dropping back into it's normal, wispy tone. "I need agents like spiders, cunning and deadly, agile and silent. I need to sow distrust and fury into the world, and watch the tapestry of mortality, life's greatest lie, unravel."

The spider bore fangs. "To put it simply for your addled brain, I don't have any work for you. Now, leave, before my darlings get hungry."

"Alright, fine, I'm leaving…" He said. "Do you know someone who needs a Dremora?"

The spider chuckled. "A mortal, perhaps?"

"….Right, one of your things is lies…"

The cackles of an ethereal tone echoed long after He left the cobwebs behind.

* * *

He'd run into Peryite completely be accident, and almost kicked his image out of the way, since it looked like a giant skeever.

Honestly, He'd forgotten about the Taskmaster until running into him. The other Daedra often ignored the prince, or scoffed at his sphere of Oblivion.

"Oh, a Dremora?" Peryite said, sitting up on his hind legs to stand taller. "What might you be doing out here?"

"…Walking?" He replied, unsure how to answer.

He hadn't heard good things about this Daedric Lord from other Dremora.

In fact, He'd heard nothing from Churls and Catliffs that had gone to work for him. They were never heard from again.

"What are you doing?" He asked, feeling like he should at least be polite.

"I am on my way back to The Pits," Peryite replied, whiskers twitching. "I have some lovely souls of skeevers to take to their new home."

There was an awkward pause.

"Well, I'd better be going," He said, gesturing vaguely in another direction.

The form of Peryite started to change from that of a skeever into a four legged dragon. It was small, but still a drastic change from the vermin he had been moments before.

"Wait a moment, Dremora. You seem…chaotic." Peryite circled him. "Yes, yes. I could work with this…"

"I'm not interested," He said quickly, backing up.

Peryite's wings twitched. "Why not? I promise I won't do anything too strange."

"Er…thanks, but…I'm on my way to meet with someone else,"

Peryite sighed. "Very well, but if you find yourself in need of a task, I can help with that."

He suppressed a shudder.

Even if said task was just something minor, there was too high a risk of getting sick from the Daedra's presence.

Literally.

* * *

He was prepared to fight for the honor to serve Boethiah, who values battle and competition, but instead, the Daedric Prince asked an impossible task.

"Er…I can't really do that," He said, sheepishly rubbing one armored arm.

"What?!" the caped, imposing guise of the Daedra screeched. "You dare question my will? You dare come to my realm requesting my help and you refuse my task?!"

"No!" He said, pausing and shaking His head. "Well, yes, but not because I won't do it, I _can't_ do it. I don't have any friends to sacrifice."

There was a moment of tense silence.

"Oh." Boethiah muttered. "I've never run into that problem before…"

"Yeah…I don't know many people, and those I do know, aren't around for me to even try and trick into coming here and getting themselves killed." He explained. "Could I…fight a bunch of people instead? Or…I don't know, go fetch something for you?"

"Eh, I've got mortals doing all that. And Hunger to chase the mortals, so…boring." The Daedric Prince replied. "It's not that your story doesn't intrigue me, but I have no work to be done."

He sighed, "Well, at least you didn't insult me for never having been in a battle before. Malacath wouldn't shut up about it."

"Well," Boethiah chuckled, "Malacath…. wait, you've never been in a battle before?"

"I'll just be going," He sighed again, gesturing vaguely to the edge of the realm.

This was beginning to get frustrating.

On the upside, He was gaining confidence when talking to the Daedric Princes, so that was something.

* * *

Dog walking was a bad enough job.

Dog walking a piece of living, breathing Daedric power that wouldn't shut up, was worse.

Barbas was sniffing a patch of grass. "Wow! This is great!"

"It's just grass," He replied, bored. They'd been out for hours, and hardly moved ten feet. Barbas kept getting distracted by smells and long winded stories.

"Not the grass, having somebody walk me!" the dog said, looking up. "It's been forever since Clavicus Vile went on a walk with me!"

"Probably because your annoying," He muttered under His breath.

"He's always busy making deals, messing with mortals…" Barbas continued. "I keep telling him to take a break for wheeling and dealing and collecting souls…I mean, he needs to organize those souls, for one thing…"

"Why does he even want that many souls?" He asked, genuinely curious. Molag Bal wanted them to run machines and to have the Soul Shriven slaves.

But He was curious why other Daedric Lords wanted them.

"He likes having them for the sake of having them," Barbas replied, sniffing around another patch of grass. "He's funny like that."

"Uh huh." He muttered, still bored. "Do you think Clavious Vile would make me a deal?"

Barbas whipped around to bark at him. "What? Haven't you been listening? I told you all those stories about the bad deals he made!"

"Er…" He hesitated. "I heard you, but I wasn't really listening…"

"Vile's deals are always in his best interests,"

"But he can grant any wish, right? He could make me powerful and respected and…important?" He asked.

Barbas barked again and butted him with his head. "You stupid Dremora! I just said Vile's deals were…well…vile!"

"Yeah, but-"

Barbas sank his teeth into His leg, and surprisingly, they tore through the Daedric plates and into flesh.

"Ow!" He snapped, stepping back. "What was that for?!"

"Being dumb!" Barbas growled. "Don't. Make. A. Deal. With. Clavious Vile."

He frowned, "I don't get it. I thought you and Clavious were somehow connected. Why are you trying to talk me out of something to benefit your master?"

"Because I'm a nice guy! Or…dog, rather…" Barbas replied smugly. "besides, Vile's busy right now with a mortal gambling for his sister's soul, or something. That's why I came to greet you!"

"How do I know you're not the one I should be careful of," He countered, crossing his arms.

The dog gave him a long, hard stare. "Dremora always think it's a secret plot, huh?"

"Well, is it?"

"If I say no, you won't believe me."

He paused, thinking it over. That much was true.

Maybe making a deal with any Daedra wasn't a good idea…

"I'm leaving." He announced.

Barbas whined and ran around his legs. "But…my walk!"

"I came here seeking power and battle," He explained. "I've seen and been promised, neither."

"Well fine, we didn't want to make a deal with you anyway!"

He shook his head; Sometimes, Daedra made no sense.

* * *

The realm of Hircine was an amazing, vast and untamable wilderness.

Or, so He had heard. At the moment, He was on the outskirts talking to a statue of Hircine. The Daedra apparently couldn't be bothered to show up in person.

"So, you see, I'm looking for a new purpose, a new master to serve in glorious-"

Hircine cut off His rehearsed and, if He thought so Himself, quite good speech.

"How fast can you run?" Hircine asked, voice sounding oddly excited.

He shrugged, "I'm not sure, not very. This armor is heavy."

"Hmm…"

"Hmmm…what?" He asked, nervous.

Hircine's voice chuckled, "Well, you see, Dremora, I do need servants. I need things to run through the woods so my beasts can give chance."

"Oh, this job involves a lot of running?" He asked, disappointed.

"Yes," Hircine answered menacingly. "A race, a game of cat and mouse, sometimes literally. You must run, and hide, and then finally be caught and ripped apart."

"I'm not really good at running or hiding," He answered honestly, feeling disillusioned. "I appreciate the offer, but…I'm not sure I'm a good fit for you."

There was a long pause.

He swore crickets were chirping somewhere.

"You know, most creatures freak out about the chasing less than the being ripped apart thing," Hircine pointed out. "But, you have a point. I doubt you'd provide much….entertainment for my followers."

He nodded, "Probably not, but I know this dog named Barbas…"

* * *

The realm of Vaermina, Quagmire, was absolutely awful.

Everywhere around Him were terrible visions of flowers, warmth and kindness. Nothing of battles and purpose, but only compassion and gentleness.

Finally he stumbled up to a massive statue of the Daedric Lord and sighed in relief.

"Vaermina!" He implored. "I'm only in your realm to find a new master to serve! Can we talk?"

A voice of both dread and beauty echoed forth from everywhere at once; "Dremora, you should not be here. Physical speicmens are not meant to step forth in my realm. I only desire memories."

"Now you tell me," He muttered, annoyed. "But I need to speak with you!"

The voice shifted, higher, then lower, then quiet and loud.

"I have no use for another like you at this time. Your memories are foul to me, and leave nothing. Lesser Daedra can withstand my realm, but not you. "

"But I-"

The voice cut him off; "No Churl! Leave here at once! You containment my feast with your foolish memories. I seek mortals for their worth to me, not you."

Unceremoniously, the ground opened up and He was falling until hitting something solid, before the world flipped upside down once more.

He groaned and stood up, confused for a moment. He wasn't sure if He'd just been in Quagmire at all or if it was all an illusion.

"Haha watching you fumble around is so entertaining. I could watch it for another six centuries, no! Two centuries! Haha!"

He wiped around to face the new, obnoxious voice and came face to face with Sheogorath, one of the Daedric Princes He was trying to avoid.

He must have shown it on His face, because the well-dressed Daedra scowled. "Someone is a grumpy pants! Aren't you happy to see me? Uncle Sheogorath?"

"Your not my uncle…" He said, confused.

The Daedra rolled his eyes. "Dremora, the buzz-kills of Oblivion. It was a joke, my boy, _a joke_. Do you know what that is? Well, you must, you _are_ one."

"Hey!" He snapped, reaching for his blade. "I have been mocked enough!"

"I'm not mocking!" Sheogorath insisted, only to pause and then shake his head. "No, I am mocking. But in love. Always in love. I love jokes, and watching you travel around the Void trying to find a home has been one hell of a joke."

He glared at him. "I told you I would not be mocked,"

He drew his blade, but instead of ebony colored Daedric metal, the sword was now nothing but a bouquet of feathers.

"Ah-Hah! See, another joke," Sheogorath said, grinning widely.

He snapped his fingers and the sword returned to its true form.

"No laugh? No smile? Grin?" He asked, leaning forward on his cane to stare intently at His face. "Nope, nothing. Tough crowd tonight,"

"What do you want?" He hissed, irritated and slightly worried about why the Daedric Prince of madness was here to begin with.

Whenever and wherever he visited, trouble followed.

Sheogorath groaned. "I'm bored, alright? And I told you, you entertain! I've been watching you since you left Cold Harbor. All the Daedra you visited, all the troubles you ran into…"

"Don't tell me you have a task for me," He said, halfway sarcastic.

Sheogorath grinned, "Not really, I'm inclined to watch you bumbled around some more. I could have you fetch a button I lost, or my cheese knife, but my favorite mortal already did that, and didn't even return them to me. Gave them to some boring, dull, Dunmer who never stands up. So boring! But, not my favorite mortal. No, no, no. She's fun, thinks I'm funny! Most of the time anyway. I miss Shalidor. There was someone I could watch bumble around too. He was so transparent! Haha, get it? Transparent? Because….well, never mind. It's hilarious. Take my word for it."

Confused and lost in the conversation, He latched onto one thing; "Who is this mortal?"

"Oh! A mortal. You've met her, I think." Sheogorath said, rocking back and forth on his heels. "You know, there's a job for you."

"What's a job for me?" He asked, perhaps too quickly.

Sheogorath grinned again and winked. "If I told you, that would ruin the surprise! Everyone is always trying to skip to the ending of things these days! That's no fun,"

"Did you want something?" He said again, fingers tightening around the handle of his sword. It was taking quite a bit of will power to not take a swing at the Daedra in front of him.

"Yes, I want world peace. Well, no, actually I don't. But I do want cheese, and wine, bread…mostly cheese. Oh! And you to keep doing what you're doing."

He stared at him, wondering how the Daedra ever ensnared anyone with his babbling.

"Well, I've got to get back to Mania, or is it Dementia?" Sheogorath said, tapping his chin. "Hmm…can't remember, all well. I'll ask Valaste, if she's still alive. I don't remember, I'm not sure she'll remember either. She's all sane now, so, not nearly as much fun."

He turned, took two steps, then turned back and held out his hand. A pebble was inside his palm.

"A gift for you, Dremora!"

He stared at it.

"I'm not taking that."

Sheogorath frowned, "How come?"

"I don't understand you, let along trust you," He replied.

The Daedra began laughing. "Ah! You are funny. You were right to leave Molag Bal, way too much fun to work for him. Or any of the Daedra really. I think your my new favorite Dremora, Dremora. Have a blast."

He tossed the pebble off into darkness.

"What was it?"

"A pebble. I found it in my pocket and didn't want it anymore." Sheogorath replied.

He blinked, confusion melting into pure bafflement.

"Well, see you round, Dremora Dremora, have a great time in the 3rd Era. I hear it's an arena!" He laughed all the way into darkness as he slowly faded away.

A long moment passed.

"What just happened?"

* * *

"No."

He held his hands up in defeat. "What? Just no?"

Meridia continued to stare at him impassively. "Yes, that's it. No. I don't accept Fire Stone's left over scraps."

"Um…Cadwell?" He pointed out.

She had appeared to Him on the fringes of her realm, the Colored Rooms, before He could even enter them. How she knew He was there, He'd never know, but she refused to even let Him see what was behind her.

Meridia's scowl deepened. "You can thank the Vestige for that,"

"The what?" He asked, puzzled.

She rolled her eyes, "Exactly why I cannot let you in. Be gone."

"Fine, I didn't want to join your stupid group anyway," He snapped.

He was running out of options. He was telling the truth; Meridia unnerved Him, but there was only one Daedra Prince left to try.

Mehrunes Dagon.

He, too, was not the first choice, as many claimed he was cruel even to his Dremora. But, he was also the best chance for true glory and action.

With a deep breath, He plunged back into the Void in search of a way to the Deadlands.

* * *

The Deadlands were impressive, and they had let Him in without a fuss. He already felt a slight bit of hope He might actually fit in here. Rumors around the Void was that Dagon had something big planned, but He didn't know the details.

If the rumors were true, however, then maybe, just maybe, the Daedric Lord would have need of more soldiers.

He was tired of being mocked, tired of failing in every task given.

It was time for the glory of battle.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **Whew, this one took a lot longer then I thought it would! It was fun yet challenging to keep the Daedric Lords in character, but also mock them. Except Sheogorath. I could literally write him all day long.**

 **I'm trying to tie into as many games as possible, so there's little things hidden throughout. I'd do more from the Morrowind game but I didn't play it, so I'm not as familiar with it. Old games like Daggerfall and Arena get mentions along with others. (Can you spot all the lore tidbits?)**

 **Peryite is supposedly not a favorite among Dremora, which is something I didn't know. I guess it's mentioned somewhere in ESO? Besides, what do you do with him for a story like this?**

 **I always forget Azura is also the Daedra of ego and vanity, and it was just too fun to really play up those traits.**

 **So many Daedra...I could write notes on all of them, but you can always mention things in reviews. I ddid try to keep as lore accurate as possible but still make it funny.**

 **I think everyone can guess what is starting off the third and final part of this story, based on where we left off! Thanks for reading. Below see review replies (I don't remember if I sent you PMs on these already or not,)**

 **Wolfen: OMG, I completely forgot that line Molag Bal has in ESO! It's so much funnier now...hahaha. Is that a lot?**

 **Kaishi Shouri: I'm glad you enjoyed, I aim to entertain ;)**

 **TwistedApron: I'm glad you enjoyed! I find Dremora culture very interesting, actually. And Daedra in general. There's so much there lore wise. But why make it serious when I can make it funny, right?**

 **Thanks everyone for reading!**


	3. When trust is secure

Mehrunes Dagon's army was impressive, boasting a Daedra from every caste, class and location. After just a short time, they'd easily accepted Him into the army, but with little instruction or training. He figured they probably assumed He knew what was going on and assumed, incorrectly, that He had battle experience.

Even though the majority of the creatures ignored Him, He thought perhaps He could pick up tricks if He watched them long enough.

But there were so many!

Everywhere He looked in the Deadlands, there were Daedra training, Daedra marching, Daedra talking. And none of them wanted anything to do with Him.

After a few failed and awkward attempts to start conversations with other Kyn, He gave up. They all looked at Him like He was a mortal when He said hello to them.

He picked up some training habits from watching the others, but for the life of Him, He couldn't figure out if anyone was in charge. Surely there was someone in charge, but who were they and where were they? Was he supposed to be reporting to them?

This, He supposed, was the downside to having such a massive army.

A Banekin ran by His feet, chattering angrily as it went. It glared at Him as it passed and He frowned, wondering what He had ever done to deserve that.

"Yeah, you better run!" a voice shouted after it. There was a Dremora on a nearby rise, shaking his fist at the beast as it stomped away.

He looked familiar…

"Hey, Kyn!" the Dremora greeted, "Is that you? Remember me? From Cold Harbor,"

"Oh!" He exclaimed. "Yes! You were the one who always wanted to throw Banekins!"

"Yes!" The other Dremora said, flinging his hand wide. "That's me! I'm still wanting to throw Banekins!"

They were finally close enough to not be yelling, and He found himself relieved to see a familiar face. His old friend frowned, "What are you doing here?"

"Same as you, most likely." He answered. "I'm looking for the glory of battle, and rumor has it Mehrunes Dagon is the one to work for to make that happen."

"Yeah, he's got some big scheme worked up," His friend confirmed. "But its guaranteed to mean battle!"

He hesitated, not wanting to admit He had no idea what was really going on. "I'm a little lost, actually. I'm not sure who I'm supposed to be reporting too?"

His friend waved a hand, "Don't worry about it. Stick with me, we'll just take on the foolish mortals together!"

That sounded like a great plan, and one He could get behind. He readily agreed, stifling an out loud breath of relief.

Everything was coming together.

* * *

This was it!

His first battle. His first true test of skill. His moment!

Mehrunes Dagon's forces were in the process of creating something they called a Great Gate, but He wasn't really sure why it was great.

Maybe they meant "great" because it was big.

Regardless, this was it.

His friend was practically jumping up and down beside him, just as excited. He'd said he'd been in a few small skirmishes, but nothing like what awaited them on the other side.

Apparently the gate was near a town called Bruma, which sounded really familiar, but He didn't dwell on it. Apparently there was also a horde of humans on the other side.

He couldn't wait.

The gate burst to life with fiery sparks and a roar like a Daedroth, filling the space between obsidian spires with swirling Oblivion Magicka.

A sudden raucous call went up around the gathered forces of Lord Dagon. And what a varied assortment they were. He never seen such variety since Molag Bal's attempt at the Planemeld.

That felt like such a long time ago now.

All the denizens of Oblivion moved towards the gate, and He had no option but to comply and move with them. It didn't take long to reach the gate, but by the time they did, everyone had altered positions and He felt a tad claustrophobic.

There were multiple figures blocking His view and several that bumped into Him with enough force to make Him stumble.

Everyone was looking forward to the battle, He was sure.

The gate loomed in front of Him, dark and blistering, a comforting sight to behold. With no time to even take a breath, He was swept along with the tide that entered.

In a split second, the Deadlands were behind them, and an unfamiliar, disgusting visage of bright colors and clean air greeted them.

He could only assume this was Mundus, in all its' horror.

But, the silver lining on the black cloud was that a battle raged around Him on all sides.

The sound of steel clashing upon ebony, the sight of magick spells tossed hand to hand, the pained screams. It was everything He had hoped it would be, and more.

He took one step towards the heart of the battle, searching for a target to slay.

An arrow suddenly flew out of nowhere and embedded itself in His knee.

Someone had shot Him! In the knee! With an arrow!

What kind of monster would do that?!

It had managed to hit the space between the plates of His armor and found purchase in the fleshy substance beneath.

He toppled, surprised and overrun by the unexpected pain.

He hit the ground without any dignity, and promptly pushed Himself up, trying to get a glimpse of whatever mortal dared to fire at Him, but He quickly gave up on that notation when moving only increased His pain.

Whatever noise he made as He cradled His injured limb was thankful lost in the din of battle, but He looked around with less appreciation now.

Everyone He looked, His Kyn were being felled, one by one. Yes, some mortals fell, too, but it didn't look like either side was winning.

"I don't want to be here!" He exclaimed. No one heard Him, of course, but He whined again; "I want to go back!"

Ignoring the pain, he started to crawl His way back towards the gate, hoping to get through and back on the other side.

At least there He would be able to breathe.

He hadn't made it that far from the gate, but it seemed to take phases just to get near it now. His path was blocked suddenly by two humans doing battle with a group of Dremora and Clanfear. He wasn't sure with them being mages that He could make it past without being destroyed.

Off to the side was an outcropping of boulders. It was close enough He thought He might be able to get to it, but perhaps far enough away that He could figure out His next move.

He began to crawl his way there, wincing as a fellow Dremora Kyn fell dead right beside Him. Somewhere in the distance a loud explosive of magick hit and a shower of dust sprinkled Him as He moved.

He was so close, so very close to those rocks…

A scamp ran by, making that weird laughing, growling sound that they did, and didn't even glance His way.

He frowned, annoyed.

Typical.

The rocks were almost within reach, but he had to roll out of the way as a mortal's body came crashing down, landing in a heap where He'd been a moment ago. The body was mangled by what looked like several bashes from a mace.

"What are you doing?!" a female Dremora shouted at Him, mace in hand with blood still dripping from it. "Get up and fight!"

Before she even finished speaking, an arrow pierced the back of her head, then her arm, then her chest. She swayed, then crumpled to the ground.

He didn't need more of an initiative to move then that.

Finally, the rocks were in front of Him, and He used the rest of His adrenaline from the battle to haul Himself up and over.

Once on the other side, He heaved himself up to a sitting position to look as His leg, still amazed that someone had shot Him.

The sounds of battle were ringing in His ears, and His very being was torn between wanting to rush down into the thick of it, and run away where He'd never have to hear it again.

"I told you not to go down there!" a voice said, coming into range.

He froze.

That was a mortal's voice.

"I should be helping," another voice said.

There was a half-laugh, half-snort. "Oh, okay. With your vast knowledge of warfare, eh?"

He peeked over one side of the boulders, trying to get a look at what was going on. He strained and heard footfalls, though they sounded odd.

"I did help, you know,"

"This guy took a spell for you!" the first voice insisted.

Finally, coming up a small ridge, were two—no, three—figures. One was half carrying another which was why the footsteps sounded so odd.

The third was wearing impressive armor and looked sheepish at the last comment. "Well, yes,"

"Well, yes," the first voice, a female, mocked. "Look, _I'm_ the hero, as everyone likes to tell me, so I'll do the hero stuff. You stay out of harm's way so you can do whatever with that amulet when I get it back."

She shifted the weight of the body she was dragging and then carefully they both lowered the armored figure to the ground. He groaned and mumbled some nonsense about it being an honor to take a spell for the future emperor.

The woman rolled her eyes. "Save it for when you're having drinks later with your friends. It'll make a fine story."

"I-I don't think I'll be telling any stories," the man muttered, sounding pained.

She shook her head, "No! No one is dying. You will be fine."

He muttered something unintelligible from His vantage point, but the finally figure shook his head. "No, our friend is right. You will be fine."

"You better be," the woman said, voice strained but amused. "I went back for you and everything,"

He watched as they worked to heal him, magicka flowing in gently glowing waves, and He was surprised that it seemed to be working.

"You should go, you need to get inside that gate," the man in the more ornate armor said.

She frowned. "You saw what happened when I tried, it shoved me back."

"We didn't consider that the gate might not allow mortals in," he concurred. "I suppose I should have…"

"I'll figure it out." She said, shrugging. "Just promise me you'll stay put."

He seemed reluctant and she glared at him. "I am not kidding, Martin. If I have to save you one more time, I'll kill you myself when this crisis is over. What part of you being the only one who can use the amulet do you not get?"

"Alright, alright. I'll avoid the battle." he finally agreed.

He had been leaning, straining to see and hear their conversation, but was avoiding using His legs, for fear it would hurt more. But as He tried to shift, His gauntleted hand slid against the stone beneath it and made the most horrid screeching noise.

He winced and dropped down, hoping that they hadn't heard it.

"What was that?"

He winced again. Well, that wasn't good.

He looked around, trying to see if there was an easy escape path, but there was no such route. It was only a matter of time.

The mortals would find Him. They would kill Him.

With a spell? With more arrows? With swords and daggers?

Footsteps wandered towards Him and he braced Himself for the end, racking His brain for a final, triumphant battle cry.

The female of the group cautiously came around the pile of boulders, bow drawn back and ready to fire.

He was about to shout His final words when she paused and cocked her head to one side.

"Steve?" she said.

He blinked. Once, twice.

It was her.

The mortal from Cold Harbor. All those phases ago…

But that was impossible!

"It is you!" she said, lowering her bow but keeping the arrow notched. "And they say the Aurbis is so big…"

He just gaped at her. She grinned, "Oh, you probably don't remember. From Cold Harbor. I was that crazy one in the prison who always gave you a hard time. Fancy meeting you here. I've run into a lot of Molag Bal's old goons, actually."

"I…do remember you." He said slowly, knowing He was only dragging out His evitable demise.

She smiled, "Really? That's great!"

Great?

She _was_ crazy!

They were enemies!

He should have wanted to kill her where she stood, but truly all He wanted was to run away, back through the portal and return to Oblivion.

The mortal realm was a very scary place.

"What did you find?" her companion asked, boots crunching on the somewhat frozen ground as he approached.

The minute he saw the Dremora, his hand reached for the sword at his side. The blonde woman's eyes widened and she thrust her arm out. "Whoa! No, he's fine."

He winced, fully expecting a blow all the same, and was surprised when her companion actually hesitated. He was looking at her like she had lost her mind. She just smiled.

"He's an old…um…well, friend isn't the right word, but he's fine, no need to draw steel, Martin." she explained. As if to prove her point, she placed her bow onto her back.

'Martin' frowned at her, "Of course you are friends with Daedra. I really shouldn't be surprised by anything you do or say, should I? Is this like you claiming you met Vivec?"

"I did meet Vivec!" she insisted, sounding annoyed. She rolled her eyes and returned her attention to the Dremora. "Actually, Steve,"

"Steve?" Martin commented beside her, sounding utterly baffled.

They ignored him.

"Maybe you can help me." She finished.

He blinked. "With…what?"

Now He was making deals with mortals. He had to be the worst Dremora in all of Oblivion.

The woman pointed towards the Gate looming in the not-too distant, distance. "I need to get inside of that."

"You want to go inside the Great Gate?" He repeated, confused.

She nodded. "Yes, I…well, nevermind why, just when I tried, it repelled me. I've been through gates before and never had that problem."

"I don't make the gates," He informed her, trying to keep His voice even. He didn't want her to get frustrated with him and shoot him in the eye.

His knee still hurt.

"Well, I figured. But I thought maybe you might know something useful?" she asked.

For all His aversion, she was actually being very…polite.

"I…don't know." He admitted. "I've never gone through them from this way. I don't think the Great Gates were made for that."

"Hmm…like Daedric Arches and Dolmens…" she mused, tipped her chin.

"Perhaps it's because you are from here, Nirn, that you cannot pass through the gate." Martin suggested. "That would make sense; you do not belong to that place, so you cannot enter."

"What if I had a proxy?" she said, turning back to the Dremora. "If I followed you through, maybe then the gate would let me go."

"You want me to take you through?" He asked, startled. "That would be a betrayal, I could never!"

She held up her hands, "Alright, I understand. I'll grab a corpse of one of the other Dremora and try with them." She made a face, "Sorry, those are your friends down there. I didn't mean to be insensitive."

"They are not my friends." He muttered.

He shifted and instantly regretting it as pain laced up His leg.

"Ouch, someone shot you in the knee?" the mortal woman said, gesturing to his wound. "Nasty! Here, let me see."

He pulled away from her as far as He could as she knelt down. She paused and held up her hands, "I'm not going to hurt you,"

He didn't believe her.

She gently poked at His knee and frowned. "My magic won't work on you, but I can at least take this arrow out. It'll hurt for a second."

Looking up at him, she offered a small smile. "Do you trust me?"

"No."

She laughed, then, and shrugged. "Fair enough."

Her fingers wrapped around the shaft of the arrow. "Ready, dreadful Dremora number one?"

He sucked in a breath and nodded.

She wasn't kidding when she said it would hurt; the arrow came out cleanly enough, and He managed to only make a small sound of compliant.

She tossed the arrow aside and inspected the wound once more. Her friend muttered some sort of incantation under his breath. The words sounded somewhat…odd coming from a mortal.

Reddish light engulfed his fingertips and he carefully touched the wound. It eased some of the pain, but didn't close the wound all the way.

The blonde raised an eyebrow at the same moment the Dremora did.

Martin shrugged, "Tricks you pick up dabbling in arcane pursuits."

"Why help me?" He asked, suspicious. "I won't help you through that gate,"

She sighed, "I know you won't, but I wish you would."

"Are you concerned for your pathetic mortal lives? Concerned that your realm will be brought to utter ruin?" He mocked. He was irritated with their assistance, and more irritated with Himself that He needed any help at all.

"Yes." she whispered earnestly. "I am concerned that everything around us will crumble to nothing but dust. I am concerned for the lives lost, and those yet to lose. Aren't you?"

"Dremora know no fear," He snapped.

"Horker dung," she retorted. "You know fear, you simply master it. I am no different. I have seen the end of eras, the rise and fall of countless cities, empires…but that doesn't change that war is an ugly affair."

She gestured to the battle still raging behind Him. "What are you fighting for? Do you think Dagon cares one whit about anything but destruction? My people die, and so do yours. Friends or not, the loss of life is a cruel truth to this wheel, isn't it?"

She suddenly laughed, hollowly, bitterly, and stood. "Dremora pride themselves on strength and mock us of weakness, yet…what is the greater strength? To fight when you know the animus will bring you back, or to fight knowing you are mortal?"

He blinked, not having thought of it that way.

He remembered the horror of the battle from a few minutes before.

"Both our peoples are dying," she whispered. "And for nothing. You follow someone who cares not for anything but his own goals."

"You think your leaders are any different?" He challenged.

She nodded, "I do. But even if they were not, even if this empire falls to darkness…the idea of something better lives on. I fight for that idea. Mortals and Daedra are not so different, Steve."

Apparently deeming the conversation over, she turned back to Martin and drew her bow. "I'm going to try and using our new plan to get through. If it fails, if…if _I_ fail, then this is our last stand."

Whatever Martin was going to say in reply was cut off as He stood, "Mortal, I will go with you and help you get through that gate."

She turned to look at Him, surprised. "Why?"

"Because I want to see this strength of yours in action." He replied.

She slowly smiled and nodded, "Then let's go. Can you walk?"

"Yes."

He wasn't sure if that was true, but He wasn't about to admit anything of weakness to these humans.

She must have noticed this before she gave Him a look and then reached out to steady Him, putting her bow away in favor of a sword. "Alright, to the gate."

He was loathe to return to the battle, but he followed her all the same.

"Stay here Martin!" she called back one last time.

As they decesened into the fight, she muttered; "Damnit it all if he doesn't listen to me." Glancing up at Him, she shook her head. "He's been nothing but trouble, really."

The battle roar almost drowned out her words, and He limped along on His leg until He found His balance. Once that happened, He carefully pulled away from her and nodded. "I can walk."

"Alright, then let's get to that gate." She replied, hurrying forward.

The first paces through the battle, they merely weaved around groups of fighting Daedra and humans, unbothered. Everyone was too busy locked into their own fights to even notice the odd pair of companions rushing forward.

But that was short lived.

As the power from the gate could just be felt against His skin, there was a shout from a mortal nearby. He winced and brought His blade up to catch the attack aimed at His head. The force of the blow buckled His knee and He went down to a kneeling position with a grunt.

"Solider! Fall back!" the woman yelled, running up and using her free hand to shove him back and away from the Dremora.

"Wha-?" the man said, stumbling a few steps backwards.

She pointed to the other end of the battle. "Go and help the warriors from Bravil on the slope!"

The man looked between her and the Dremora and hesitated.

"Go!" she snapped. "I have a gate to get too."

He nodded then and ran off.

She reached out and yanked Him to His feet. She was strong from a tiny human.

"Alright, we're almost there,"

A Xivilai rushed forward, mace held aloft for a killing blow. Before He could even raise His blade, the mortal woman had rolled aside and stood, turning in one fluid motion and drawn back her bow.

An arrow hit dead center in the attackers eye, toppling him instantly.

She glanced at Him, "Sorry,"

"I hate Xivilai." He said honestly.

She grinned and ran past Him towards the gate. "Come on Steve, let's see if this works."

He was about to follow her when an explosion went off close by and showered them with debris. He felt a rock chip slice His cheek and growled, annoyed.

The mortal picked herself up from where she'd been knocked back, making a similar growling noise of irritation. "Mages," she muttered.

She stumbled forward towards the gate and He followed, only to stop when He heard a rather loud cry of pain from what was obviously a Dremora.

As the dust and embers from the explosion settled, he could make out a heap of dead from both sides. And crawling from it all was a familiar Dremora.

The one that always wanted to throw Banekins.

He seemed extremely disoriented from the blast and was clearly injured badly. Chances were that he would die shortly.

For a moment, He hesitated.

Then He turned away and limped to the gate to catch up with the mortal. She was standing in front of the gate, panting. Her arm was bloodied from the fall after the explosion, but she held her weapons steady.

She glanced up at Him.

He held open His armored hand.

As soon as she was gripping it, He closed His eyes and stepped through.

There was a slight resistance, as if the Gate wasn't pleased someone was coming this way through it, yet the magicka relented finally and they tumbled out the other side.

He took a deep breath of sulfur and ash and breathed out a sigh of relief.

At the same time, the woman beside Him began coughing and choking on the same air.

She rolled to her knees and looked around, eyes narrowed against the heat of the Deadlands. "It worked!" she exclaimed.

They both stood as a shadow fell over them.

The siege engine was crawling straight at them.

The mortal spat something obscene.

She glanced at Him and offered a smile, "Thanks, Steve. I've got to run. Have a stone to grab before that thing gets out there."

"Wait," He called as she ran off. She skidded to a stop and looked back.

"You said you fight for an idea. I don't understand what that means."

She blinked, "The idea that all life is important, precious. That all of us can be more than we are. That everything, and everyone, deserves a chance. I fight for the idea that maybe someday, we won't have to fight any longer."

"You went back for that solider," He said, gesturing back at the gate. "You risked your life for his. Was that because of your idea?"

"Yes."

He hesitated. "I…I am conflicted."

He wasn't sure why He was telling her, why He felt conflicted at all.

He was safe.

That was all that mattered.

And yet…

"My friend, the only one I've ever had. I saw him. He was caught in that explosion. If he dies in your world, I don't know if his animus will return to Oblivion or not." He explained.

She looked surprised. "You…want to go back for him?"

"I shouldn't. Dremora know going into battle what it means."

"It is not weakness to lay down your life for another." the woman said. "In fact, that is no greater strength or courage, then that."

He paused, at war with Himself. Every part of Him knew He shouldn't go back, but one, tiny fiber, told Him the opposite.

He looked back up at the mortal; injured, exhausted. She would likely die, as they all would. Here, now, or tomorrow, somewhere else.

And yet…her spirit was unbroken.

He'd seen her during the Planemeld as much the same.

Perhaps she was right, about true weakness.

"I'm going back." He announced.

She smiled, "Good luck, to us both. I hope you save your friend."

She rushed off, towards the tower nearby, and he waited a moment to whisper; "I hope you save your world."

And He meant it.

He was supposed to serve Mehrunes Dagon, but He didn't truly want that other place to be destroyed.

Turning, He ran back through the gate, into the horrible battle on the other side. It was hard to believe it was still raging. He hurried to where He'd seen the explosion happen and looked around. It didn't take Him long to spot His friend, barely moving across the ground in an attempt to get away from the fighting.

Not so different from Him a few moments before.

"Here, let me help you," He said, stopping low to grasp His friend's arm.

The other Dremora blinked at Him a few times. "Y-you…you came back for me?"

"Yes," He assured him. "We need to get out of here.

He was about to try and help His friend stand when he realized that the other Dremora had no legs. They had been blasted clean off by the mage's spell.

He swallowed hard and instead chose to grab both hands and started to drag him across the bloodstained ground, towards the gate.

"Come on," he urged, dragging his friend behind him, limping on his injured knee. If it hadn't had been for that mortal's healing spell, he wouldn't have been able to walk at all.

He shook his head, banishing thoughts of the strange woman. He wouldn't see her again, He was sure.

His friend groaned, the grip holding onto His arm weakening. "I-I can't feel my legs," he said.

He paused, but didn't look back. "When we get back to the Deadlands, you'll be fine." He said instead, resuming his walk.

It took much too long to get to the gate, and for a frightening moment, he surveyed the battle happening around it. There was no way, injured and dragging someone, that he would make it without being cut down.

All around, spells were being fling, swords were clashing and arrows were soaring. Dremora and mortals alike fell, one after the other.

"You…you've got to leave me," his friend muttered. He released his grip entirely. "You'll never make it back. Only one of us will. You aren't injured as badly. You have to go."

"No!" He shouted. "No, I'm not leaving you. We'll get back. We'll find a way."

He reached down and snagged His friend's arm again, ignoring the way the spiked armor cut into Him. "We will. Just don't give up on me."

"Okay." His friend breathed, swallowing. "Okay."

Taking off once more, he winced as his injured leg almost gave out on him. But he pressed onward, mumbling to his friend as they entered the fray.

He talked about how they were going to terrorize banekins when they got back. He talked about how he would finally go with him to try and pick up seducers. He talked about how they would get healed, and how they would get revenge on the humans.

By some trick of magicka or luck, they were nearing the gate and had yet to be hassled by any mortals.

As he crossed the threshold of the gate, He felt the sting of magicka and the heat of the Deadlands and breathed a sigh of relief.

They were safe!

He moved out of the way, before the engine could crush them, and found a spot nearby to settle His friend, who was still awake but breathing heavily.

"We made it," He assured him. "We made it. We'll be fine."

He looked around, hoping to spot a healer nearby, but saw none. They were likely dealing with injuries on the battlefield, He realized, heart sinking.

But as his gaze was automatically drawn back to the gate, He watched it crack, tremble, and finally collapse into itself.

The mortal had spoken truth. She had destroyed the gate.

He stared for a moment at where the gate had been, wondering how the humans had managed to find the power to do these things.

They were too strong. Unnaturally strong.

Perhaps, then, He would see her again. This fight would continue until someone important died, He just knew it.

With the gate destroyed, the Daedra all gathered around what was left of the engine to gossip about what had happened.

He surveyed the group, hoping to see a healer. Finally, He saw one and sprang to His feet to catch the seducer as she walked by.

"My friend!" He said, pointing back. "He's injured."

She gave Him an irriated look, but followed all the same and looked over the other Dremora. It seemed like an agonizingly long time as she studied His friend before she finally knelt down.

But in a flash, she pulled a dagger from her belt and stabbed it into the side of his neck. He died in a matter of seconds, gurgling and clearly terrified.

She stood and smirked at the stunned Dremora.

"Master Dagon does not tolerate weakness," she said, slinking away.

He stared at the lifeless body of His only friend. Mangled, betrayed.

And in that moment, He learned what true hate felt like.

He hoped, more than ever, that the mortals won this war, that they made Mehrunes Dagon _bleed_.

Long after all the Xivilai, Dremora, seducers and scamps had left the area, He remained. Sitting next to His friend.

Lost.

* * *

He stared out at the endless sea of lava and frowned, wondering if He should try and transfer back to Cold Harbor. He kind of missed the dreary cold and endless blue skies.

Besides, it was about time for Molag Bal to come up with a new scheme to destroy or take over Nirn.

He sighed and sagged, muttering to Himself out loud; "What are you doing? Your life is as pathetic as ever…no glory…no purpose…"

Of course, no one answered him, and he certainly had no answer for Himself. He had tried every Daedra, every plan, every section of Oblivion he could get too, and nothing felt right.

He was still a lowly Churl without any honor or glory to his name, very few kills or battles under His belt and no name.

" _Maybe…you're just not cut out to be the bad guy, Steve."_

Words from a mortal He'd heard ages ago echoed in His head and He frowned. That couldn't be true. Dremora lived for battle, lived for blood and war and lived to serve the Daedra.

It wasn't true.

It couldn't be.

…Could it?

If He wasn't cut out to be the bad guy, then what was He supposed to be?

He groaned and kicked a pebble into the lava. It disappeared beneath the roiling magma and He morbidly wondered if He should toss Himself in, next. Maybe if the Azure Plasma reformed him over a few hundred phases it would fix all the problems.

Because clearly there was something wrong with Him.

Suddenly, the world seemed to ripple, seemed to tilt. He looked around, confused, and reached out to grasp the nearest stone pillar for support. But His hand passed right through the rock, as if it wasn't there. Yet, He could see it, He could see…

Everything started to fade, to grow hazy. He felt like He was flying, then falling, then flying again. After a heartbeat, He was standing, but everything was black.

And just as He was about to yell in a panicked fury, His vision cleared.

Oblivion was gone. He was somewhere else.

Somewhere….wrong.

It was cold, freezing actually, with snowflakes of purest white dotting his black armor at an alarming rate. It felt a little like Cold Harbor, but it was too bright, too light, too…gentle of a place. There was no heaviness in the air, no aura of dread and despair.

It made Him want to gag.

Instead, He just squinted against the sunlight and looked around.

He appeared to be on a roof of a building, if the walls around and floor below and sky above were to be believed.

Was he…on Nirn?

The thought was a frightening one, and He quickly whipped around to look at His new location, terrified at what He might see.

Upon closer inspection, there was magicka in the air, a whiff here and there, and runes and symbols on the ground.

He began to wonder if He'd just been summoned. His greatest fear.

It had happened to more and more Dremora and lesser Daedra as time went on, with increasingly bad results for everyone involved.

And yet, mortals persisted and Dremora went crazy because of it and _he was next_.

He was going to die.

Or go crazy.

"No!" He shouted angrily, drawing His blade from His back and whirling around to find whoever had dared to summon Him in the first place. Maybe He could strike quickly enough to destroy them before the ritual was complete.

It was hard to see through the snow, but He saw a figure a few feet in front of Him, dressed in armor with a hood pulled up against the wind and hands alight with purple plumes of magicka.

"You dare bring me here!" He called, tightening His grip on His weapon. "You will be punished."

The figured chuckled, flexing gloved fingers until the spell dissipated from them. "I summoned you, I control you now."

Enraged at the arrogance of mortals, He snarled, hoping it was scary and carried through the wind. "You control nothing, mortal!"

He lunged forward and took a swing at the figure only to have His blade knocked aside by two others. He growled, frustrated, and lifted His blade to attack again.

Yet, the mortal paused. "Wait... _Steve_?"

He faltered at the old, almost forgotten name and His sword clanked into the stone roofing harmlessly.

The figure pulled back her hood, revealing a familiar face that squinted against the wind. "Steve!" she exclaimed, a smile lighting up her features. "Wow, what are the chances…"

He blinked stupidly a few times. "I…I…"

"Er, sorry." she apologized, sheathing her swords. "I didn't really mean to summon you. I was trying to get stupid Phinis to sell me more powerful spells and he concocted this test thing and…well, here you are."

"…You…summoned me…" He said, feeling out of sorts. He wasn't sure how He felt about this.

About any of it; being summoned, being summoned by _her_ of all people, taking a swing at her, being on Nirn.

"Don't worry," she assured Him, holding up her hands. "I can send you back. You're not stuck here, unbound or not."

She began to weave a spell, and His eyes widened. He reached out and grabbed her hand. "No!"

Looking puzzled, she frowned up at him. "What is it? I thought you'd want to go back right away. I'm sure you don't want to be here on Nirn,"

He hesitated.

Noticing that she had trusted Him enough to sheath her weapons, He did the same with some level of embarrassment.

"Why did you need to summon an unbound?" He finally asked.

"For a Sigil Stone," she explained. "Once I have that, I think Phinis will let me in on the secrets of some new spells."

"I…see." He muttered.

She grinned, "I honestly don't know why this spell defaulted to you. There must be millions of Dremora. It's weird, right? I am sorry to bother you, after all. But I'm glad to be having a civil conversation. I expected more 'I'll tear your heart out' talk from this ritual."

Yes. That was the sort of conversation they _should_ be having. He should be trying to enact revenge for pulling Him from His realm into hers.

And yet…it didn't make sense that He would fight her. She had saved His life, once, and before that offered a "truce". Here He was, standing before a mortal with no desire to spill blood. It felt…strange. But she was strange.

"So…you want me to send you back?" she asked, breaking Him out of His thoughts.

Millions of Dremora, and the spell chose him. Why?

"No." He said, shaking His head. "I want answers."

"About?" she asked, wincing as a particularly strong gust of chilly wind blew past them.

He narrowed his eyes; "About why you summoned me."

"I already told you," she replied, sounding only slightly exasperated. "What? You think I'm lying? That would be pointless. Accident that you are here, I was aiming for any Dremora I could convince to get me a sigil stone."

"Then convince me." He challenged.

She blinked. Once, twice.

A slow smirk slid onto her face. "Alright."

He wasn't expecting her to draw her swords. "Well, Dremora serve by choice, right? They serve the strong. So, if I best you in combat, you get me a sigil stone."

He laughed.

For the first time in many phases, He laughed.

"So be it, mortal. You meet your end." He intoned, drawing his blade.

He hefted the sword, ready to strike, but everything turned hazy and He realized with a start that His mortal opponent was merely laughing. Despite her swords drawn, He saw the purple flames of a spell.

"Wait, you-"

With a flash, and a tilting of the world again, He was back in the Deadlands. He blinked, looking around.

She had banished Him.

He scowled, putting His sword back and debating if He should throw a tantrum or not. The only other creatures around were Scamps, surely they wouldn't mind…

But then the world was twisted again, and He was falling somewhere in between darkness and light. Once everything stabilized, He found Himself within the summoning circle in the snow storm once more, facing His greatest enemy.

The human girl gave Him a sly grin, hands falling to her side as the swirling magicks of conjuration faded.

"Cheater." He said sullenly.

"So sorry, but all's fair in war, right? I outsmarted you, bested you in combat by banishing you and summoning you again. You owe me a sigil stone." She said, shrugging. "Your idea, by the way. Once I have it, I'll send you back and…well, I don't know. We seem to keep running into each other, huh?"

"Indeed." He said, frowning. "Nevertheless, summon me again and I will have your sigil stone."

She nodded, extending a hand towards the summoning runes. "See you in a minute, dreadful Dremora,"

He closed His eyes, and when He opened them, He was back in the Deadlands.

Lava flowed by at a slow pace, slowly eating away at the rocks trapped within them. He swallowed and looked around, making sure once more that no one was watching. If anyone saw Him get summoned by a mortal, He would be facing endless "rehabilitation".

Luckily, the area was empty, devoid of anything but some Scamps up on a hillside. They weren't paying Him any mind anyway.

He began His trek towards the nearest gate shrine, knowing there would be a sigil stone there. Truthfully, He wasn't sure what He was thinking agreeing to this. He would be killed for His treason, even under duress of mortal persuasion.

But still, she had bested Him, and he had His honor to uphold. Dremora were many things, but they had their own sense of honor and duty.

Besides, He had no ties to Mehrunes Dagon anymore. He had lost His respect when His friend had died for nothing. He only remained because there was nowhere else for Him to go.

No better master then the strongest Daedra, the one who had come the closest to destroying Nirn.

He had no choice.

Approaching the shrine, the Kyngald on duty looked up, narrowing her eyes at Him. "What are you doing here, Churl?"

"I…" he hesitated. "I…require that sigil stone."

She raised an eyebrow. "Require it? For what?"

"…For…" he had never been a good liar. "For my…master."

She stared at Him. "And why would Dagon have you come and retrieve it? A lowly Churl, one who has never even seen a battle to the end?"

Now there was a good question. He had never been good at talking, like some Dremora, weaving spells of words with cunning and crafty wits. So He rushed at her, drawing His sword and ramming her in the temple with the blunt end of it before she could make a move to grab for her staff.

She crumpled to the ground and He winced, gingerly stepping over her fallen body to reach out and grab the sigil stone. The shrine trembled as He removed the stone, and He knew that Dagon would know it had been removed.

Well, Dagon's trusted keepers would know, and they would tell him, but basically the same thing.

As if the ripple of power displacement could be felt in Nirn, He saw the world start to slip away just as Dagon's voice boomed from the ethers of Oblivion; " _My sigil stone_!"

And in a heartbeat, He was standing once more before the mortal conjurer, who smiled at Him and nodded to the sigil stone. "You got it! I wasn't sure you'd keep up your end of the deal. But, I guess I can always count on you, Steve."

He frowned, and passed it over. "Lord Dagon is…less then pleased at its absence."

Her expression turned concerned as she cradled the orb to her chest. "Are you…going to be in trouble? I feel badly for forcing you into this, to do something against your master must be punishable, right?"

And right then and there He made a choice.

"No." He said, shaking His head. "For Mehrunes Dagon is no longer my master."

She looked confused, and then startled as He drew His sword from His back and slammed it into the stone work between them. Grasping the hilt, He knelt in front of it, and closed His eyes against her wide eyes.

"I have chosen another, for that is what Dremora must do. Chose our master."

"Uh, wait, what-"

He continued, ignoring her; "We serve by choice. We serve the strong, so that their strength may shield us. Practice is secure when oath-bonds are secure, and trust is shared. I swear my blade, my strength and my life to you. Loyalty and honor, power and glory, all to you. My life, for your purpose, my death, for your glory. Your will, my command."

He was frightened for a moment she would deny Him, or laugh, or chide Him for thinking He could ever serve her with His weakness.

But when He gained the courage to look at her, He was surprised to see her at eye level. She had knelt down to stare at Him, face to face.

"…Is this what you truly want?" she asked.

He nodded, for once in His life sure of Himself.

"Then, I swear to you my blade and my strength. My we shield each other, and find honor and glory together."

He blinked, and then nodded slowly, agreeing with her. "I never asked…what is your name?"

He knew mortals had names given to them at birth. The strangest thing, but surely she had one. He should know what it was before they began their journey together.

She smiled slowly. "Ah, I have been called many things…hero, champion, liberator, Nerevarine, marked, vestige, chosen, scion, agent…Dragonborn." With a single laugh, she continued; "Whatever name I was given at my birth, I know not. I have been called Belle'Rielle Direnni, and The Bright Moon's Claw by those closest to me, once upon a time…" She shook her head. "Many names, many titles…it doesn't matter."

Steve frowned, finding the situation ironic. A mortal with many names that didn't care for any of them, and He, a Dremora with none that wanted a single name to describe Him.

The mortal, perhaps not mortal at all, this…Dragonborn; she was strange, but he found it comforting, somehow.

She held her hand out to Him, making Him look at it in confusion. "I will only accept your fealty if we are as partners, companions, friends. You are not my slave, nor do you owe me anything. If at any time you chose to release yourself from this oath bond, so be it."

He was surprised, even though He figured He shouldn't be. He already knew she was foolish, if not endearing. He found this offered freedom…frighteningly enticing. He didn't foresee leaving her service, but He liked the idea that it was up to Him. That anything was up to Him.

Awkwardly, He reached out to take her hand, hoping He wasn't crushing it with His spikey armor. She grinned and gave the hands a good shake. "Alright, then I dub thee sir Steve, Dreadful Dremora! On your feet. We have work to do."

"What is our mission?" Steve asked eagerly, sheathing His sword along His back.

She grinned, "Well, we're going to save the world."

Steve blinked. "Again?"

"I know, right?!" She agreed. "But, I'll bet you no Dremora's ever done that before, eh?" She paused, holding the sigil stone up to the light. "Hmm…first thing first, though…see if I can get those spells now…" She frowned, "Darn, I'm carrying too much to be able to run…this could take a while."

Slowly, He smiled.

This was where He belonged, where He would embrace His destiny.

Finally, He would make His name known as the strongest Dremora on Nirn and in Oblivion.

He was Steve, Dreadful Dremora number one. He served a mistress with eyes the color of Cold Harbor's sky, hair as luminous as the armor of the Golden Saints. With the soul of a dragon, the heart of the Divines, and the strength of the Daedra.

Perhaps they would become heroes together, names written in the annuals of the Elder Scrolls themselves.

Either way, He had finally found His place in the world.

"There can be no other end," He intoned gleefully.

* * *

 **Author's Note: The End!**

Well, Our pal Steve will be appearing in Skyrim LOL's, of course. I hope you all enjoyed this one part serious, three part humor story ;) I had wanted to get this done awhile ago, but I never got very far into Oblivion, and I knew the main storyline and everything, but not how it really played out.

Starting with Skyrim and then trying to go back to Oblivion was weird. The combat on Skyrim is already hard to get used too, and I found Oblivion's even more clunky. Not to mention that stupid wheel of disposition. I could never figure that out...haha.

So, I watched some Let's Plays of Oblivion (which takes longer then it should because people on Let's Plays are needlessly irritating,) to make sure I kind of knew more...and then changed it anyway because A) The hell is Martin doing ON the battlefield? Worst. Idea. Ever. He couldn't give that speech INSIDE Bruma's walls? Dude is the only one who can use the amulet, and we just have him out in a big battle hoping he somehow knows how to use a sword? Sheesh...

And B), why would the Gates let mortals just waltz through them? That was just bad planning on Dagon's part, seriously. In ESO there's a whole big magical thingy you have to have a bunch of mages do to get into Cold Harbor...

Ahem, ANYWAY

I could not resist an arrow to the knee joke. ;)

I wanted to portray the battle being kind of bad on both sides. Although, I'm probably the only one that starting to feel bad mowing down Daedra minions. That led to that part beging surprisingly serious. I actually re-wrote it a couple of times until it made the most sense to me.

There is some mention in lore (and I can't remember where, right now...) that Dagon does in fact kill injured minions and/or those that fail him. Despite that, most of the Dremora still work for him, though those that work for others often comment that he and Peryite the Taskmaster are the worst.

Obviously you don't acquire the Summon Dremora Lord spell from that Skyrim quest, but it made the most sense. I mean, I tend to BUY it from Falion, but that just doesn't have the same ring to it...haha

Hmmm...I think that's it about the story. I could blather on longer, but why?

ALSO, I have made a **YouTube channel**! No, there's not annoying Let's Plays, ;) I do have some fun stuff, if I say so myself. There's some Skyrim Shorts of funny stuff that happens to me while playing (Yes, Steve WILL be featured on some,) And then there's my pride and joy, HITMAN TAMRIEL. Check it out ;) Channel is **TheBangkoraiTrolls**.

Thanks all for reading and I hope you enjoyed! 'See' you on the next project!


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